


Cullen Rutherford: A Witcher in Thedas 2020

by Eravalefantasy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, More tags to follow, Tevinter Imperium (Dragon Age), Tevinter created witchers, Witcher!Cullen, cullen is a witcher
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:04:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22818184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy/pseuds/Eravalefantasy
Summary: The witchers in Tevinter are all but a memory. When the Archon tasks Gereon Alexius to build him a glorious new army, it is decided Alexius will revitalize the witcher program. The only problem...not one of his subjects has survived.  Until now. This is the story of a young Templar. Abducted from Ferelden, he was meant to serve the Imperium. Cullen Rutherford will leave the Imperium behind to fulfill his first forsworn duty. Protect the people, protect his friends, and follow the path before him.
Relationships: Alistair/Amell (Dragon Age), Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 35
Kudos: 38





	1. Prologue: 9:40 Dragon

9:40 Dragon

Yen’s missing. She has been for weeks. How did I lose one of the most powerful mages in Thedas, you ask? If I knew that I wouldn’t be sitting here in the middle of a war freezing in the Frostback Mountains; you asked, so here’s the story. Something’s gone wrong in Thedas. Never mind the mages and Templars, that’s been brewing for ages—it finally exploded. Literally exploded. Kirkwall burned, but there was something underneath it. A new evil crawled up from deep underground. I still don’t know who’s behind it. 

We’ll save that story for another time; you’re here because of the destruction at the Conclave. The whole world’s fallen apart with demons pouring out of the sky and I may be the only one of my kind left.

Who am I? I’ll get to that.

Back to Yen. Yennelyn of House Trevelyan. You’d know her if you met her. One look. That’s all it takes with most men. She’s . . . unforgettable. The world is filled with color but Yennelyn? She is what lies beyond the darkness. Yen is life without the need for light. I met her years ago. Made a fool of myself, actually. The first time I looked into those violet eyes my words fell everywhere around me except for out of my mouth.

_“You do have a name, don’t you? Perhaps you are afraid I might run away with it and never return? I assure you, your name is safe at least for now. As for the rest of you?” Yen licked her lips. “Another time, perhaps?” She laughed and continued on her way leaving the scent of rosemary and lemons in her wake._

Her laugh. You’d think I was a young boy with his first crush when I heard her laugh. That was the first time we met, well sort of met. I didn’t know who she was at the time. After Kirkwall fell, she had to stay hidden. All of the remaining mages in Orlais and Ferelden were hunted. Not by my kind, but you understand there was so much confusion and fear after Kirkwall. I escaped, but barely.

I received word from a certain Lady Cassandra. A noble out of Nevarra, I knew the name well enough. The lady is a Seeker of Truth. Thedas’ ultimate order. Judge, jury and executioner for all, including witchers. She’d heard what I’d done in Kirkwall; how I supported the Champion after the Chantry exploded. What she didn’t know? I helped the Champion and her pet mage escape. I knew he wasn’t responsible for the explosion. His spirit passenger was the one who carried out the deed. I couldn’t condemn a man for the spirit that controlled him, and I promised to free him.

After Kirkwall, I traveled across the Waking Sea and into Ferelden lands at Cassandra’s request. I heard someone speak Yen’s name again on the ship from Kirkwall. Even though we’d been apart for some time, I searched every inch of that ship and still found nothing. That was her way; Yennelyn flew in and out with the wind.

My destination? A small hamlet called Haven. Appropriate, don’t you think? Haven. A small gathering of misfits forced to band together for sanctuary. They had all the right players in place.

There’s the Nightingale, Leliana. We’ve worked together for years. The darker the place, the more likely the Nightingale would seek my help. She knew I didn’t scare easily. Then again, neither did the Nightingale. I wondered if her fellows knew the deadly skills of their spymaster.  
  
Josephine Montilyet a noble from Antiva; the group's ambassador, among other duties. She’s well spoken, but Leliana shared Josephine’s past. The lady was not to be underestimated.   
  
The commander of the armies is a Knight-Commander Rylen. He seems decent enough—for a Templar. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy, but the Templars don’t like my kind, so I’ve done my best to avoid him.

I waited in Haven for Yennelyn, hoping for a sign from her. Then the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes occurred. Leliana and I were talking when sky ripped open and the demons came, and she sent me on ahead.

This is what I do. I put myself between the demons and everyone else.

What I found was unsettling. Death. Annihilation. Nothing survived. I found no trace of Yen; I knew she wasn’t among the fallen. She couldn’t be.

On my return to the forward camp, I started to hear the stories. A woman dressed in black with dark hair and violet eyes fell through a hole in the Fade. It had to be Yen.

Which brings us here. Stay if you like, you’re safe, but you should find a way north. Ferelden is lost for now, but not for long. How do I know? I’m going to find Yennelyn and then fix this mess.

Who am I? I was born in Honnleath, I survived the Massacre in Ferelden’s Circle, the fall of Kirkwall. They call me the Butcher of Denerim—I served King Alistair during the Blight and I’m known as the Lion of Ferelden. My name is Cullen and I’m a witcher.


	2. Torn Asunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A training exercise at Kinloch Hold facilitates a planned abduction. The target? A young Templar. Cullen Rutherford had no idea why he'd been given the assignment, passing over recruits and Templars with far more years. When the midnight session turns sour, Cullen couldn't begin to imagine what waited for him.

The road from Jader bothered neither horse nor rider; Cullen sat astride his black mare guarding another group of refugees to the coast. A long sigh faded into an irritated grumble. _If it wasn’t for the binding magic, I’d likely care to speed up the return. Let her wait._ The horse snorted, as if she understood her companion’s unspoken frustrations; Cullen patted the side of her neck.

“I know Shade. I never claimed to be smart,” he said, stretching his arms. “You all right to keep going?” Another snort and the slight dip of the mare’s head answered his question. “Hey, when you need a break, tell me.” The two continued along the dirt road toward the south.

An old signpost, weathered and cracked, listed off center. Cullen didn’t need directions. To his left, Orzammar and the dwarves would welcome him, but Yennelyn was hopefully still in Haven, to the South.

Just beyond the pass and toward the lake, the Circle Tower still stood. Years had passed, and all that remained were memories. “This whole mess started at the tower, Shade. It was years before I met you and her.” Another stretch ended in a sigh. “It was a different life; one I took away from a good man.”

l-l-l

9:28 Dragon, Kinloch Hold, Ferelden

“That’s not appropriate and you know it.” Cullen fought to hold back his laughter, but once again, Solona’s serious face changed as she crossed her eyes.

“You are far too stern. I thought I’d made it clear that if you ran from me or avoided me one more time, I would find a way to embarrass you.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, her eyes narrowed. “So I’m here to do just that.”

“I am on duty, Miss Amell, and I thank you kindly for your visit, but isn’t it time you ran along and studied how to bend the good silver or turn an unfortunate suitor into a frog?” He was barely keeping his composure; standing at attention, Solona tried to trick him into moving away from his post. It wasn’t malicious with her, not once during any of their conversations. She teased him for some unknown reason, and over a period of several months, he’d realized he enjoyed her company.

Her expression softened and brow creased. “How long have we known one another?”

_I need to be careful_ , he thought. _This conversation could land us both in a lot of trouble. Keep it light and keep your eyes straight ahead._ “A while, I believe. Of course, we didn’t truly start talking until you froze the stairwell door to prevent me from my rounds.”

She huffed. “I had no choice,” she said voicing her justification with a curt nod. “You ran whenever I said so much as _hello_.”

He swallowed the smile he knew crept of its own accord. He remembered his face burned such a bright red; she’d apologized for nearly an hour for her mistake. A better Templar would have turned her in and demanded she be disciplined for her infractions, but he couldn’t. “You never considered I was shy? Your solution was to prevent my escape-”

She interrupted him with an accusatory pointing finger. “Ah ha! There it is—you admit you ran away.”

He forgot himself and looked at her directly. “Of course, I ran! There you were, always wanting to talk about your day. You realize now, of course, how much trouble you could have created for us both.”

Her eyes widened and her head bobbled from side to side. She grimaced and gestured toward him, but Cullen couldn’t understand what she was trying to say. With a long eye roll, she shifted to stand beside him and whispered. “Careful, you’re out of formation.”

Muttering a curse, Cullen straightened and shook his head. Solona looked on him with such a grin, had it been under any other circumstances he would have been flattered. A light chuckle fell from his lips. “I could turn you in, you know. It really isn’t a laughing matter to sully the honor of the Senior Enchanter for your amusement.” 

“All I asked was if you’d ever pictured the Senior Enchanter in his knickers.” She stared at him with a serious look until a light and musical laugh threatened to pull him in along with it.

He snorted a laugh, which only sent Solona into richer peals until she shushed them both and checked the corridor. Cullen quieted, resuming his post. Solona had a way of making him forget to behave properly.

“See,” she said with a whisper. “You think it’s funny, too”

“I am not laughing at the Senior Enchanter, but rather that you delight in picturing him without them.”

“Oh,” a sudden wistfulness invaded her voice. “So, you are laughing at me?”

The thought of insulting her troubled him _. Now look what you’ve done._ “No. No please, that is not what I meant. Maker’s breath! Please forgive me. I would never intentionally hurt your feelings.”

She leaned close once more and he stood still despite the awareness of her body nearly touching his. “I know,” she whispered, before moving away once more.

If they weren’t in the Circle, if he wasn’t a Templar—Solona would be a wonderful companion. A sharp whisper of warning behind him straightened Cullen’s posture just before the Knight Captain appeared. _How did she know? If that’s a mage trick, it’s a right good one._

“Rutherford!” Even his name served as an order to attention on the Knight Captain’s lips. “Complete your business and gather your gear. You’re to report to the main gate immediately.”

“Yes, Knight Captain, ser!” 

With a nod and a blessing, the Knight Captain continued down the hall and out of sight.

Solona sighed. “That was close,” she said, shifting to face him.

“I have to go. Thank you for . . .” Cullen blushed. “Thank you. Goodbye, Solona.”

Her face paled. “Never say those words Cullen. Bad things happen. Always say see you. Don’t invite an end. Say it, Cullen.”

A respectful nod toward her was quickly followed with reassurances. “Goodbye and don’t worry, I will return tomorrow,” he left her, running toward the armory.

Excitement and expectations filled the large armory as those chosen for the training mission talked; speculations and expectations of what a field training session would be like filled the large room. Cullen ignored the chatter; he didn’t agree with those who saw the exercise as an opportunity to hunt mages. There were good people in the Circle. Solona and her mentors had always been respectful and kind.

He’d never witnessed any mage turning into the feared abominations during their Harrowing. Sure, there had been rumors, but well before his time. Since Cullen arrived at Kinloch, not a single mage had turned. To him it seemed a far rarer occurrence than his Knight Captain insisted.

Cullen was often called upon, with several others, to assist with various errands and tasks for the Order and the Circle’s Senior Enchanters. There were many who refused such work, citing a superiority precluding them carrying out anything less than their sworn duty.

_I wasn’t raised to think myself any better_ , he reminded himself. His armor fit snug, Cullen tightened every strap and buckle, ignoring the friendly jibes and taunts until the conversation turned.

“So, you and Solona, is that a thing?” Roland was a few years ahead of Cullen. “Is she worth the time?”

“Leave it,” Cullen replied.

A crescendo of noise and catcalls only served to aggravate Cullen more, spurring Roland to continue. “It seems the perfect recruit has a weakness, lads. I may have to sample this one myself.” Roland reached out to push Cullen aside.

It happened without warning. Cullen’s vision narrowed and nostrils flared as he dodged the intended blow and caught Roland’s wrist in his hand. “I said, leave it.” Dark amber eyes held their challenge against the more senior recruit. He didn’t move or loosen his grip; heart thrummed in his chest, but his thoughts were clouded. Preparing for the fight to come, Cullen didn’t register the gentler hand of another on his shoulder.

“Let him go, Rutherford. His lot isn’t worthy of your time.” The Knight Lieutenant’s name eluded him; Cullen recalled the man had transferred from another Circle up north but had assimilated to Kinloch with little effort. “All of you, this is no time for infantile behavior. _Some_ of you are Templars; those of you chosen for this exercise it’s time to depart.” The slight wasn’t lost on the crowd in the armory. “The rest of you should return to your studies.” A collective groan and a few dissenting remarks necessitated a stern glance and retort. “Unless you fancy kitchen duty, I suggest you depart—now.”

The Lieutenant’s words silenced the revelry and the armory thinned leaving nine recruits, Cullen among them; he wondered why so many had been passed over, many of those not included had more years in service.

_It’s none of your concern. Focus on the mission_ , he thought while tightening the buckles on his armor. The others filed out, Cullen hanging back _._ He exhaled, pushing the doubt and uncertainty from his thoughts. “Keep vigilant and you might learn something,” he muttered, resuming the march toward the doors.

l-l-l

Once outside, the lack of moonlight settled at the back of Cullen’s list of concerns. The Knight Captain said nothing as the boats carried them across to the dock. The silence afforded Cullen time to sort through his unease.

_If this is a simple training exercise, why carry on in the dead of night?_ He looked over his shoulder at Kinloch’s boat dock; the distance from the tower now too great to return. Around him, the others carried on conversations as if it was a day trip, but his attention shifted toward the wood at the lake’s edge. _We’ve not ventured out for training beyond the confines of the Tower._ Once more, Cullen looked over his shoulder, the Tower even further away. He shivered and quickly looked around. _I don’t need to give any of them a reason to poke at me later. Breathe._

A light tap on the shoulder and a question shifted Cullen to face the person behind him.

“Is something troubling you, Rutherford?” The sharp gaze of the Lieutenant bored through him.

“No, ser.” For a moment, the Lieutenant’s stern expression softened, as if he was about to reassure Cullen, but he cleared his throat.

“You’ve got good instincts and a sharp eye; that’ll help in the weeks to come.”

“Weeks, ser? Am I to be reassigned?” He wanted to press, to ask more questions, but the Knight Captain began to brief those in his boat. 

“There may come a time in your service to the Chantry,” he began, “when the need to hunt a mage will see you undertake what we are about to do. Knight Lieutenant Devon, please continue.”

_Devon, that’s his name Devon Elerion_. Cullen remembered bits and pieces of previous conversations. The Lieutenant seemed most intrigued by Cullen’s memory of the Chant and his interest in books and reading. He’d wondered if the man had taken an interest in his training or just in him. _I’d prefer not to broach that subject, especially not with a superior._

Cullen realized he might miss the mission briefing and pushed aside all thoughts to focus on the instruction. By the time they reached the lakeside dock, the group split up in pairs. Ser Devon clapped his hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “You’re with me.”

It made little sense to pair with his superior. _Why not have another join the group, leaving the officers to observe?_ He shook the uncertainty away, following his Lieutenant into the wood. 

It took his eyes longer to adjust than expected, several times Cullen lost sight of the older man. _Is he trying to lose me?_ Despite the darkness, the surrounding forest did not sleep. Night bugs chirped in short bursts, dissipating as Cullen ventured deeper into the wood. It took little time before their single noted song began again accompanied by the rustle of leaves high above.

Far in the distance, a low rumble of thunder announced a storm encroached on their endeavors, but Cullen knew better than to speak. The exercise required silence to find the officer acting as the hiding mage.

An owl’s call went unanswered. The night hunter continued his hollow tune until finally another answered.

The musty scent of rain mixing with the dry earth soon filled the air; droplets pattered the leaves. Cullen focused his attention searching for the telltale crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot amid the night sounds. A crow cawed twice and then fell silent. When the owl began its call once more Cullen bit back a smile.

_Talkative thing_ , he mused, _I don’t remember owls being so vocal when they hunted back home._

From his right, a hiss pulled Cullen’s attention, but the ever-constant hoot of the owl proved too distracting. He couldn’t gauge the direction. A thought clawed its way forward. _It’s a signal. Maker take me, it must be_ , _but for what and to whom?_

Reaching instinctively for his sword, the briefing stayed his hand. _We are to proceed without weapons, although I’d feel a lot better._ His eyes searched for proper cover. _If I could ignore the forest sounds, maybe I could figure this out. A large tree might provide a decent hiding spot_.

He found one to his left several feet away; the large, wide trunk could aid his endeavor. _Now, easy steps_. Cullen slid his feet forward, careful not to crush leaves and twigs underfoot. He took slow breaths, not only for stealth, but to calm his racing heart.  
  


Another crow cawed from Cullen’s right, but this time he heard the mimicry. _It’s not a bird, but a man._ Holding his breath, he listened. The bugs had fallen silent, suggesting he wasn’t alone. Something approached from the right; whispers hissed low and quiet, in concert with the increasing storm. The realization of what he faced chilled him. _I am the prey in this hunt_.

And then a sound he’d heard every day caught his attention. Subtle and quiet like a cloth dragged against a hard surface. Cullen knew it. A sword unsheathed from its leather scabbard within steps of where he stood. Self-preservation responded and Cullen reached for his sword, this time intending to free it, but he'd acted too late.

“Not a mark!” He heard his lieutenant exclaim as a muscled arm reached around his neck and tightened. He couldn’t breathe, let alone call for help. Another man stood to his right, wrestling the sword from his grip. Cullen’s eyes widened. The soldier at his right wore an unknown uniform; the sleeve emblazoned with a hooded figure standing on a boat.

_Would a smite work even if they’re not mages?_ His thoughts raced for any hints from his training, but his chest ached from the diminished airflow. _Get on with it!_ Vision narrowed as darkened edges grew, obscuring what he could see. _You’re almost out of time, fool!_ Cullen closed his eyes and tried to focus on the one skill he hoped would free him.

“He’s fighting back,” a gruff voice warned the others. “If you don’t silence him, I will.”

“Not a mark, I mean it Acasius.” 

“Then finish it!”

l-l-l

Before Cullen opened his eyes, he knew he was on a ship. Even if the hammock he rested in wasn’t enough proof, wood creaked as if it were rocked on a point; the strain of motion ticked and stretched. Heavy fabric rustled in the stale air, murky and fetid it itched in his nostrils. He reached to rub the itch free, when a sudden twinge of pain at his neck shifted his attention.

_I must have been hit or fell,_ he thought, cautious fingers tested the spot for evidence of a fight.

Muted wind and waves carried through the timber; Cullen near to certain he could hear water spilling nearby. He thought to rise from his hammock; the sway had begun to disturb his stomach.

_Better to let my captors think I still sleep,_ he thought, keeping his body still, and reaching for the wall to steady the motion. His hand pressed against something other than the hull, by the curve of the wood and cold metal straps, he guessed barrels or the like.

Hands twitched, a subtle reaction to their unbound state. Low light did little to dispel the darkness, a soft blue glow contained in metal balls hung from above, and watching their near violent swings made his stomach lurch more.

Somewhere nearby a voice cut through Cullen’s examination of the room. “You can get up, you know. You’re in a cell and not going anywhere.” The oddly familiar gruff voice laughed, but it held no humor.

It was then Cullen saw the bars; spaced close enough to prevent a man from squeezing through. He understood. _This is a slavers ship, but why take only me?_ The ship pitched more violently than before and Cullen willed his stomach to hold fast; he didn’t want to give his captors the satisfaction. He coughed. “Where am I?”

Another caustic laugh. Boots scuffed along the wood and the man dragged a chair behind him, its heavy legs thumping at every plank joint. “No demands for freedom? No oath of revenge? _Where am I?_ Is that all you have to say?”

The urge to laugh at the taunts meant to incite him faded before he answered. “It would do little good. I am, as you said, in a cell.” He lifted his hand to indicate his predicament and incarceration. “I doubt you’d free me if I asked, so why bother?”

“The man leaned so far on his chair, Cullen heard it scrape the floor. “I could let you out; give you a chance to fight me.”

It was a lie. Cullen distinctly remembered the men told not to harm him or leave a mark. He’d not be freed; someone needed him without injury. “Your employer might take exception to us fighting.”

This time the laughter sounded genuine. “Are all you farm boys this cheeky? I expected better manners from the likes of you.”

“Manners? You slavers absconded with a Templar in the course of his duty and now you lecture me? To the void with your manners!”

The man laughed. “That the best you can do?”

He rarely cursed; it wasn’t allowed at home and most of Cullen’s exposure to foul language had come during his training, but Cullen’s dislike of gruff slaver grew. Expecting retaliation, Cullen opted to return to his hammock before he spoke. _“_ Fuck you _.”_

A clang of metal against the bars turned him around to see his jailer. Gripping a gleaming sword, he held still. Stringy black hair peppered with grey fell to his shoulders. The man stood firm like a wall, solid and unyielding. Only half of his face wore evidence of beard stubble, the left side devoid of facial hair. A deep scar cut from the man’s chin up through his eye and ended in a curved hook shape just above his forehead. “Let’s dance,” he said, menace lacing his challenge.

Heavy foot falls announced another as Cullen could make out the man he thought had been his superior. “Acacius! Damn you! We need him alive!” The newcomer scoffed and ranted about some being far too bold and learning their place.

A smirk rose to Cullen’s lips and he raised a single brow. “Told you,” he said with a shrug. “I’m needed _alive_.”

“For now.” Acasius snarled making odd motions in the air with his hand. “Sleep.”


	3. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen wakes in unfamiliar surroundings. Meeting his captor, he learns his trials have only just begun. Far from home, Cullen must find a way to survive.

A slow drip somewhere in the room pulled Cullen to wakefulness. His head throbbed, and the attempt to open his eyes pained him. Searching his memory, the near darkened cargo hold was the last thing he could recall. _How did I sleep through it all?_ Any movement of his head elicited greater discomfort. _Oh right_ , he remembered a small wooden club clutched in Acasius’ gnarled and scarred fist and the wicked grin he sported as he unlocked Cullen’s cell. _So much for leaving me uninjured._

Thinking it better to rest on his side, Cullen attempted to turn, but the shackles he’d been forced to wear on the boat were now attached to heavy metal chains securing him to a wooden slab. It was slanted in such a way that while somewhat upright only allowed him a limited view. Rows of worktables against the wall sat cluttered with vials and jars. Piles of parchment lay crumpled and strewn across almost any open surface. _Is this an infirmary of some kind?_ He yanked and pulled at the chains several times, despite understanding the futility. _Since when are chains necessary in treating wounds or illness?_

Muffled voices caught his attention; Cullen quickly closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing.

“Go find him,” a man said entering the laboratory. “Check the tavern.” Cullen heard the door close and his captor complaining. “Create a witcher in less than a year? Make an army for Tevinter to take Par Vollen, Seheron and then march south? Orders I am currently unable to fulfill. Such is the plight of those with vision—the powers that be want immediate gratification.”

 _An army for —Maker preserve me, I am in Tevinter?_ He’d heard stories of ruthless blood mages and evil magisters, but to be taken from Ferelden and brought here? Cullen struggled against his chains.

“It will do little good, young Templar. Those chains are obsidian and have an extra touch of magic to prevent any escape. Save your strength.” 

A mock bow introduced Cullen to his captor. “Gereon Alexius. “A pleasure.” When Cullen didn’t respond, Alexius continued. “Although. I suspect there is none from where you rest.”

“Release me.”

“I’m afraid not. You see, I’ve been presented with a most peculiar conundrum,” Alexius continued, but his attention strayed to one of the tables nearest Cullen. “None of the candidates from Tevinter survived the first stage of my experiment. So here you are,” he said. “I have nearly perfected time magic, not strictly forbidden in the Imperium, you understand, but it might aid in your survival.”

 _Time magic? Experiments?_ Cullen’s heart thundered in his chest and his struggles renewed. _If none have survived, then what hope for me?_

Oblivious to Cullen’s rising concern, Alexius lectured on. A new apprentice—a mage with exceptional skills and intellect but no discipline—had joined him. This new apprentice showed promise and with his help Alexius hoped to perfect time magic into a viable weapon. The witcher project, however, could not wait for such perfections. Alexius planned to use the time magic, as unstable as it was, to ease a faster transformation. 

“You are seventeen, Cullen?”

Cullen struggled against the bindings. “How do you know my name?” He attempted to break the magic bonds he felt within the room, but found his skills unreachable. “What have you done to me?”

“The bindings block all your abilities as well. We had to, I’m afraid.”

Any movement against the restraints caused pain through his limbs, cramps gripped and twisted his flesh followed by a fatigue and heaviness on this muscles. _This is magic_ , he concluded.

Alexius turned away, but continued speaking. “It’s too complicated to explain. You are far stronger than the others brought to me. Hold on to who you are. I will not lie, my boy. The transformation will destroy you from the inside out, but I shall make you whole again.”

Defiance welled from deep within, and despite his incarceration, Cullen protested. “I am not your boy. Do your worst, I shall endure it.” Cullen inhaled, leaning on the his teachings to steel himself; he prayed, hoping the Maker might hear him. “ _My Creator, judge me whole; find me well within your grace_. _Touch me with fire that I be cleansed; tell me I have sung to your approval_.” 

Alexius laughed. “You choose your verses well for one so young. You might survive.” Alexius left his laboratory and Cullen with his thoughts.

He closed his eyes and waited. Quick steps on the stone floor caught Cullen’s ear as someone approached and hushed whispers carried hurried words. “I have little time so please listen to what I say. You have no reason to trust me. I should not be here.” The newcomer took a quick breath. “Alexius thinks me lazing about at the tavern or the brothel, so I’ve bought us precious time to talk.”

“Who are you?”

The man ignored the question continuing without an acknowledgement. “Listen to me. There is a way to survive this. Remember who you are. Hold on to your memories, to those you love. Was there no one who had your eye or your heart? Look to their face in your mind.”

“Release me.” Cullen ordered. The man’s voice was younger like his own.

“I cannot free you, there are too many about. I’ve read the notes, the initial phase will be the easiest, just a series of potions and herbs. This will prepare you for the first stage. I . . . cannot lie—you will think you are dying, and—in a way—you are. If the Maker is what you hold dear, recite the whole bloody Chant again and again. Never stop, do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. You’re not making sense.”

The man’s whispers were frantic, as if he were imparting a lifetime of information in minutes. “The second stage will be worse. By then, you will no longer care if you live or die, but you _must_ live. I will return each night and numb the pain for you. Listen to me, please. When your transformation is complete I will help you. I’m copying Alexius’ notes. I will find a way. The time magic is one thing; this . . . this is not what I want. I am sorry, but it is the best I can do.”

Cullen took a deep breath as panic grew. A wave of warmth spread through his chest. _Magic? What kind of a captor shows compassion for his prisoner?_

“Hush and rest. I will return as soon as I can.”

“You used magic on me? Why?” Cullen asked.

“No one deserves to endure this.” The man finished his casting and turned towards the door. “And because it is the right thing to do.”

“Wait!” Cullen called after him. “Will you tell me your name?”

“My name is Dorian.” Hurried steps retreated leaving Cullen alone.

__________________________________________

That night the process of transformation began. Alexius cast his time magic. Layers of intricate concentric circles formed into pockets of existence in each sphere. The outermost ring served as the barrier between the present time and the next. As one neared the center, time ran faster with each ring. This would allow the magic infused herbal potions to absorb much quicker, triggering the metabolic processes in the subject’s body to work at an accelerated rate thus speeding him through the first stage. 

Using time acceleration would advance the initial process from several days to a single night. When the household of the Alexius estate retired for the evening, Dorian crept back to the laboratory to aid Cullen.

“Well, you don’t look different. Perhaps that is one positive here. Are you well?” Dorian asked.

Cullen wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you for asking. I have a headache, nothing more. A potion would be fine.”

Dorian smiled working healing magic through Cullen. “Sadly, there will be no more potions for you. I’m almost through the notes and have all the specific formulas copied for you. The changes yet to come will require specialized concoctions to heal and enhance your skills. As you progress through the next stage, I shall teach you what I have learned from the compendium Alexius recovered. The changes are fascinating, but then I suppose when they are meant to happen to you, perhaps not so much.”

Dorian checked Cullen’s bindings. “Dorian, I swear on my honor, I shall not harm you if you release me.”

“Would that I could release you,” Dorian said, the heaviness to his words carried the same weight as condolences or even regret. He turned from Cullen, talking over his shoulder while he rummaged through papers on the worktable. “This is my last chance, if you believe my father. As I cannot free you, I will promise to arrive every night.” Shifting his attention to Cullen once more, Dorian’s pointed stare fixed on Cullen. “I will dull any pain that lingers, offer an ear to listen and impart all I have discovered.”

“Thank you.”

A halfhearted grin crossed Dorian’s face. “If we were anywhere else, I would laugh and offer some jovial reason for our pairing, but then—that’s more than a little morbid, considering. Tell me something, do you have a mind for lessons? Can you read?”

“Of course I can _bloody well read_!” Cullen lifted his head and shoulders, straining against the table. “I may be Ferelden, but do not assume we Fereldans are inferior.”

“Apologies, I meant nothing of the kind. Let’s call it a poorly worded question on my part. Keep that fire, my friend. Your pride and self-assuredness should keep much of your memory and Templar skills intact.” Dorian turned away once more. “I must apologize, Cullen. My experiences with the more rural areas of the south are limited.”

“Rural areas of the south? You must be mad. Have you never seen the royal city of Denerim or the Circle tower of Ferelden?” Cullen smiled as he thought of the tower. “It is true my family is from a small village, but there is much that is beautiful about my home.”

Cullen coughed and asked for water. Dorian nodded. He took a bowl from the counter and used magic to fill it with ice. Dorian used a flourish of his hand and a burst of flame consumed the ice and melted it. He carried the bowl to Cullen and raised his head so the man could drink. Once finished. Dorian returned the bowl to the worktable.

Cullen shook his head. “There is a pitcher of water on the table there.”

Dorian looked at the container and shrugged. “True, but then I couldn’t show off if I’d used it—now could I? What is her name? The one you were thinking of when you mentioned the tower?”

Cullen blushed. “Her name?”

“His name, then?” Dorian said with a raised brow.

“No, I . . .Solona. She is a friend, a mage but we are friendly. She must be worried. Solona flirted more than was . . . proper between us.”

“She flirted more than was proper between a mage and a Templar? You cannot be serious. You would dismiss affection because she is a mage? Cullen, you are not as intelligent as I thought.” Dorian admonished him. “That is your antiquated Chantry talking through you.”

Heavy footsteps halted their conversation, both staring wide eyed at one another. Dorian gathered up a few items and whispered, “Chant of Light, recite it!” He slunk into the shadows at the rear of the laboratory while Cullen slowly recited his verses.

The door opened and Alexius entered. “One servant overheard talking. Who is here with you?”

Cullen shook his head. “No one, I was reciting the Chant. It gives me comfort.”

“Yes, of course.” Alexius saw the wet bowl and pointed to it. “Who brought that?”

“A servant, I believe. Someone came to fill the water and I asked for a drink.”

“In the future, ask them to find me. Do not allow the elves close to you. Are we clear? All it takes is a few well-placed coins and the whole city will know what we are doing here.” Cullen nodded and Alexius left the laboratory locking the door.

The sound of retreating footsteps urged Dorian out of his hiding space. “You did not turn me in, I am surprised.”

“You’ve been kind. Why would I turn against you? Is that what living here is like, Dorian? No one trusts each other? Don’t you have friends?”

“Very few. And as for those I trust implicitly? Perhaps one or two.”

“Maybe you should choose better companions,” Cullen said.

“Says the man chained to the table.” Dorian frowned for a moment, shook his head and tacked on a forced smile. “You clearly are as horrid at judging character as I am.”

Cullen shook his head. “You’re right. So where does that leave us?”

“Why Cullen, are you telling me you consider me your friend?”

He thought carefully. _Better to have an ally amongst the wolves than to be alone_. “I would like to think so. You will not free me and you have sworn to help me survive what is to come. I can only assume that would make us allies.”

Shifting on his feet, Dorian blinked several times and sighed before answering. “Careful now, all this sentiment and I might let loose a single tear.”

“Don’t strain yourself.” Cullen quipped. A sudden wave of fatigue flowed through him and he yawned. “I would like to sleep. Will you promise to return and talk with me again?”

Dorian nodded. “You may not wish to see me tomorrow, but I will be here as promised.” He produced a key. “This is the skeleton key for this dismal place. Alexius will not know I was here. Remember what I said. Keep what matters most in your head.”

l-l-l

The next morning Cullen wakes to a horrible scream. Through his panting he realizes the voice is his. _The first of the compounds were given._ His memory returns through his blossoming awareness. _Alexius woke me at dawn._

He tries to move and is quickly held down as other servants cover the laboratory windows with heavy drapes blocking the sunrise. 

Alexius glances only once, and nears Cullen with a blade. Instead of protesting, another scream pierces his ears as his skin is sliced with a fine point. He burns. Reciting the chant in his head, he tries ignoring the panic and fear bubbling in his stomach.

_Maker my enemies are abundant . . ._

Under his skin a fire intensifies, flowing through his blood consuming, devouring - pain without end.

_Many are those who rise up against me . . ._

Another vial tips to his mouth. He fights back pressing his lips together, tucking his chin to his chest. Alexius barks at someone in the room. Six delicate hands hold his head and pinch his nose until Cullen can no longer resist _._

_But my faith sustains me. . ._

He chokes. The air is stripped from his lungs as a new burn begins. Every muscle twitches. Alexius shouts at the walls again and hands hold Cullen to the table. His body rebels and tries to expel the foreign life now consuming him.

_I shall not fear the legion . . ._

But a legion wages war within him. Time slips faster and faster and the buzz in his ears turns to a deafening roar. His body is changing and discards the useless human pieces of his soul.

Cullen tries to speak but his tongue cannot. _My ears. There is warm fluid—I bleed._

The boy that was once Cullen tries to escape. _Mia! Mia, help me. I’m scared!_

_Should they set themselves against me . . ._

Cullen’s tears flow, but they feel wrong. He struggles to remember the next line.

_In. . . In . . .In the hours of the night . . ._

He realizes he bleeds from his eyes, his nose even his sweat is filled with blood.

_When hope has abandoned me . . ._

The wave of nausea gives Cullen a moment to prepare before the sickness starts. _I cannot. Maker take me, I cannot continue._

The fever breaks and the nausea waves pass just as fast as they began. Cullen takes gulping breaths and tries to calm his rupturing heart.

_I still see the stars and know your Light remains._

He finishes the verse and realizes he is alone. There is no blood on his skin, no fire in his veins. His nails cut into his palms, longer than he remembers, and his hair falls well past his shoulders.

The sound of a lock tumbler clicks, bringing Cullen to full alert.

l-l-l

The lock disengaging echoed through the room. _Dorian is far too reckless; he’ll be caught._ The door creaked open and Dorian stomped on the floor as he entered.

“You must be mad, Dorian, clomping around like a horse. You will be discovered.” Cullen’s light baritone voice had deepened. It reminded him of his father; a lower timbre and far coarser but it was still recognizable as his own. “What did you do to my voice?” 

Dorian’s face registered shock at seeing Cullen. “I did nothing, Cullen. You survived the first phase. I guess I should congratulate you. Those golden curls are quite the distraction; I heard quite a number of hushed conversations from the house staff. I’m afraid your hair, beard and nails need attention. Lucky for you, I have someone in mind who will take care of that.”

Cullen inhaled and held it. He spoke through his exhale. “How long have I slept?”

Dorian turned back to him. “You experienced time manipulation. You slept an hour or two at most. Alexius stuck you in his time magic field after he administered the compounds. Months passed within your circle, but today is the same day the treatment began. Are you in pain?”

Cullen took another deep breath. He found no injuries; his mind assessing each part of his body. “Dorian. . .I can see within my body. How is this possible?”

Dorian leaned against the worktable. “If the notes are correct and I suspect they are as you are the first to survive this process in years; the compounds you took changed the human parts of you and enhanced them, your sight, hearing and your sense of touch. You are changing into a witcher.”

“A what. . . I am a Templar. I am no witch.” Cullen argued.

Cullen watched Dorian pull a book from the work table. “Not a _witch_ , Cullen. A witcher. You are changing. Your body processes, immunities, your senses— all of them enhanced for one purpose; you will be a warrior against the monsters. In Tevene the closest word translation is _Hexer_. I’ll show you how to use what are called _signs_. An alchemical enhancement, much like magic, but it’s too soon to impart all that information. Tomorrow, the second phase begins.”

The sweat on Dorian’s brow concerned Cullen. His breathing had quickened, eyes darted and shifted when he spoke. _Something is wrong_ , Cullen thought. _What are you keeping from me?_

“Why do you lie to me, Dorian?” Cullen watched as Dorian’s shoulders dropped and explanations stumbled out with little success. “I knew it. You’ve been discovered. Did Alexius send you to earn my trust? Is your _friendship_ part of the transformation?”

“No! He caught me with the book, but only this morning. Alexius told me to help you. I truly meant to help you and I _shall_ help you. Now, sadly my movements are watched.” Dorian moved in closer. “I swear to you, I will impart every last word, every image and every formula contained within these pages.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “When you are ready, I will help you leave. Remember that, Cullen. Sleep now, my friend. Tomorrow, Cullen Rutherford, Templar will breathe his last.”


	4. Altered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen wakes in the Fade during his transformation. Met by a spirit in the guise of his older sister, he learns there is far more to what he is about to become. Her message? Purpose before pride.

Crags of black rock jutted out in impossible arcs in a green-hued sky like a clawed hand preparing to crush Cullen where he stood. High above, swirls of black and purple clouds churned in tight spirals. Pieces of ancient towers floated in the air, held by invisible forces. In the distance Cullen saw tall black spires angrily pierce the violent skies.

“Ugh,” he said, covering his nose. Cullen couldn’t place the odor. _Something died nearby_ , he thought at first, but the smell deepened, growing more acrid and mixing with muddy earth. Inhaling through his mouth, he fought a need to gag from the coppery tang lingering on his tongue. “That’s blood,” he muttered, pulling his hand away to see no sign of injury. “Where am I?”

He was in an arena of a kind, a circular area at the edge of an expanse. Further in, a wall of rock formations with ledges jutting out in no discernible pattern lined one side. Beyond it, the expanse; endless emptiness littered with floating stones and debris.

Cullen’s surprise and shock intensified with the realization he stood dressed in Templar armor. “This is not possible. I was in the laboratory; how I am here? Am I. . .am I dead?” His throat clenched. “Maker save me, this is not my end. This is not my end!” Cullen’s voice echoed where there should be none.

A little girl’s laugh rang out, startling him. Familiar in its dulcet tones, he searched his memory for where he would have heard such a laugh. A sudden breeze blew past, taking with it the stench of decay and rot.

In its wake, a light wind flowed lazily around him, spiced heavily with warmth, conjuring memories of sweet pies and crisp drinks at harvest. _Like home_ , he thought, despite the impossibility presenting around him.

“There you are!” Her voice called out from above, Cullen’s attention pulled toward the far side of the arena. Dressed in white, a vision of his older sister at eight or nine years sat impossibly high on a ledge. Her feet dangled over the side, kicking them back and forth. Blonde ringlets framed her face and fell in curled perfection to her waist. She played with a doll dressed as he, in a Templar’s armor.

“Away with you demon, my sister did not have a Templar doll nor was her hair as long.” Cullen would not fall for such a trick. His training as a Templar would serve him well wherever he stood.

The child laughed again. “I’m not a demon, just a spirit. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She continued. “You don’t belong here.” She scooted closer to the edge, looked down toward the ground, and then smiled at him.

She scooted closer to the edge. _It’s not Mia_ , he thought. _Demon or spirit, it’s trying to deceive you_. She leaned toward the edge, her eyes staring at the ground so far beneath her, before meeting his stare. She smiled.

 _Don’t do it._ He shook his head, remaining silent. _Don’t use Mia against me._

The thing with Mia’s face grinned again. She stood, smoothed the bunched fabric of her dress, and lifted her arms, preparing to jump. “No! You’ll be injured!” Cullen ran to her aid.

She laughed again as small feet landed without effort. “You’re too soft to be a witcher.” The contortions of her face made Cullen even more uncomfortable. Her voice lost its child-like lilt and grew more mature. “Purpose before pride, witcher.”

“So, you do know who I am. You are a demon. Maker, is this the trial of the mages? Is this a Harrowing?” Cullen backed away from the little girl.

“Not very bright either, it seems.” She marched up to him and poked him with her finger. “Get this through that Templar brain of yours! I am not a demon, and this is not one of your useless rituals.” She clasped her hands behind her back and swung side to side.

Cullen’s brow furrowed with the weight of memories. “It was not Mia who stood that way, but Rosalie. She used to swing back and forth when asked to stand still. Mia. . .she always. . .stood with her arms crossed or hands on her hips.”

The spirit laughed again. “But it does not matter, for I am not Mia or Rosalie—I am me. I wanted to see you, the first in so very many years. I am the spirit of Purpose.”

“Purpose? I don’t understand.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes, as Mia often had when they were young. “My name is Purpose.” She stepped closer and pointed at him. “And you are?”

Cullen almost refused to answer until something inside told him he must tell the truth. “Cullen Rutherford.”

“Now we can converse. Cullen, there are spirits who help those in need. My brothers: Valor, Wisdom, Duty and Honor. You know them well. A Templar must walk with my brothers, but me? I am reserved for certain warriors, those who serve a singular path. You, witcher, will walk with me—purpose before pride. Never forget you must be willing to sacrifice yourself so that others may live. Those who came before you possessed too much pride, too much self. You are different. The Templar in you walks with my brothers and the witcher walks with me. Never allow the other to take control.” She straightened her dress and fluffed her curls.

Cullen smiled. “Mia did that often.”

Purpose continued. “She believed in you, you know; she believed you had a chance to make a difference. Don’t disappoint either of us.” 

Cullen wanted to ask if he still lived, but the words would not form.

Purpose covered her mouth with both hands and giggled. “You’re not dead.” Her expression soured and eyes shifted to her feet. “A part of you is dying to let the witcher inside. It must be so.”

He tried to hold the thoughts of pain and loss inside and blinked back any trace of tears.

“It’s ok to be human, cry if you want to. Just remember your path, Cullen.”

He couldn’t show weakness. Not entirely convinced the creature before him wouldn’t turn against him, Cullen tried to remain as balanced as he could, given the predicament. “I serve the Order and the Maker. Must I abandon my vows to be this witcher?”

“What did you promise when you became a Templar? Valor, wisdom, duty, honor and faith you swore to walk the path of the Order. All of these you will take with you, but I will keep you from fear, pride, despair and all those who would seek to turn you from your vows. The witcher will do what he must, but you will put others before you. Your Order? The Templars? They suffer from fear and terror, pride, despair and so many human failings, Cullen.”

He frowned and wondered what he would risk in arguing. “So you are telling me the Order is a failure because of human faults? I don’t want to be a witcher if I must abandon who I am.” Cullen said.

A bright smile took hold of her cherubic face, and she clapped her hands together once. “I knew you were smart. I’m here because for the first time in many years, a witcher who understands and feels human emotion is about to be born.” She frowned, her attention pulled away as she searched the sky above them, before looking on him again with pity. “And Cullen? I’m so sorry—but this will hurt.”

Flames ignited beneath the skin; slivers and shards cut his flesh. He bent forward and screamed as limbs shredded from the inside out.

The Spirit of Purpose sighed. “Pity, the body dies so the witcher can wake. Although I wish we had more time, we will walk together soon enough.”

Cullen’s screaming intensified as his sight was blinded by a growing yellow glow in front of him until his vision dissolved.

l-l-l

After the first few hours of the morning, Cullen stopped shrieking with each new compound; he no longer recognized pain, numbed to its effects. Only a few would be administered every day over the following three days.

The first night Dorian returned he gagged at the smell and the filth surrounding Cullen. Dorian had never been cross with Alexius’ servants, they were always kind to him. This was inexcusable. He marched up into the estate proper and dragged as many servants as he could arm with buckets and linens. “Bathe him and clean this room until not a single spot remains.” Dorian, who never lifted a finger in domestic chores, toted clean water and used magic to scour and remove all traces of the days’ foul events.

Another servant arrived and trimmed his hair short and cut his nails. Dorian knew Cullen would age by ten years by the time the second phase completed. “A life lost for the glory of the Imperium.” He scoffed and went to work with healing magic. Dorian's concerns mounted as he watched for signs of breathing and saw none. “No. Cullen, please do not tell me here is where you die. Damn you!” Then the bellows of his chest expanded. Several minutes passed before the air expelled from his lungs. “So, he will survive under water for a prolonged time, as the notes read. What have we done to you?”

Cullen did not wake. Dorian slipped out of the room again to await the horrors of a new day. The night met the dawn.

The second day brought a new dread to the estate. Ear-piercing screams and screeching plagued any souls unfortunate enough to stay within the confines of the estate. Alexius had sent his wife and son to stay with family away from his experiment. 

“Please, no more. I cannot. I burn, I freeze; you must stop.” Cullen pleaded for release.

“We are almost there!” Alexius shouted they could not stop. “I cannot see the path. Say it!”

“I cannot see the path.” Cullen repeated the phrase.

“What is the next line, Cullen? Quickly!” Alexius bellowed from across the laboratory.

“I cannot see the path, Perhaps there is only abyss.” Cullen responded.

Alexius returned to Cullen’s side. “The next line, Cullen, tell me.”

“I cannot see the path, perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling I step forward, in darkness enveloped.” Cullen completed the recitation but found no solace in the Chant.

l-l-l

The following day, Dorian met Alexius outside his laboratory. “Please end this madness. Magister, his cries are inhuman. We should work on the time magic and solve the instability issues.”

Alexius placed his hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Look at what we have created! Think on what this could mean for the Imperium.”

Dorian shook his head. “No. The reason you succeed is Cullen. His resolve and his beliefs fuel the success of the process. There will be no others. You must see the truth in this.” Dorian’s face pleaded with Alexius. A blank stare devoid of feeling looked back.

In silence, master and apprentice looked for understanding between them. Dorian spoke first. “I will tend to him.”

“You let your emotions cloud your reason.”

“I let _emotions_ cloud my _reason_? You let _pride_ cloud your _judgement_. Yes, I know I am beyond rude at the moment, but I must speak even if it is too late. I wonder who is the condemned here, him or us. You should have left me in the brothel.” Dorian pushed the door and looked back at his mentor.

“What would you have me do, Dorian?” Alexius asked.

“There is nothing to be done. Cullen will die if you do not finish.” Dorian’s shoulders caved inward. “I can only hope that when ruin and chaos have had their fun with him there is the tiniest part of his humanity left.” Lifting his head, he turned fully toward Alexius. “You took a good soul, Alexius, twisted and mangled all that should be into your own private monster. How proud you must be! To be honest, I will be amazed if he does not strike us both down to prevent us from trying again. I will serve my master’s will and find redemption elsewhere.” He entered the lab and closed the door behind him.

Dorian did not linger long. Cullen appeared to be asleep. As before, his hair and nails were trimmed. Dorian noted his hair was straightening as it grew and the color was leeching away, revealing a stark white head of hair. Everything he did was trivial. “How does one atone for the betrayal of a friend?” Dorian mumbled to himself.

“Dorian, it’s a little late for remorse. I heard you talking with Alexius. I could listen to every conversation in this estate if I wanted. Your master created his monster. What next? Bring him the Imperium? Kill his enemies? Tomorrow is the final day and I promise you this. . . neither of you will break me.”

“Cullen—”

Lifting his head, Cullen glared at Dorian, revealing the golden eyes of a predator, his pupils no longer human but cat like in appearance. “Don’t even try to explain. I will not yield. I will remember and when the time comes, there will be a reckoning for the life you have taken.” Dorian gasped and lost his footing as he stumbled backward.

l-l-l

A week had passed; Cullen survived the transformation process. He’d meant to scare Dorian. Despite Cullen’s terrible words, Dorian arrived several times a day. He alone determined to continue their lessons and their friendship. It was Cullen who refused; a deep melancholy had taken root in his head.

His room near the garden entrance remained barred from the inside, despite all attempts to coax Cullen out. Soft knocking and near whispered voices offered food and drink several times a day without fail. Cullen didn’t care. He remained hidden and silent. 

Sun beams cut through the corridor. Another perfect day in an imperfect existence. Dorian stood before Cullen’s room, determined to end the self-imposed exile. He insisted under threat of forced entry, but still he remained silent.

Resting on the bed, Cullen turned toward the wall and closed his eyes. “Go away, Dorian.”

Through the heavy wooden door, Dorian challenged him. “You cannot wallow in that room forever.”

“Watch me,” Cullen muttered in reply.

Without straining, Cullen heard the sigh of exasperation and a hushed command to withdraw. “I’m warning you! This tantrum of yours has gone on long enough!”

“I refuse to be a pawn!” Cullen had heard the hushed discussions, he knew what waited for him should he leave his room. Alexius had found a trainer, one of the last surviving witchers in Tevinter. He would arrive within days to begin, but Cullen understood would happen once he learned how to use the skills the transformation had given him. _They’ll have their weapon—me._

“Final warning,” Dorian shouted. “Open the bloody door or I will knock it down.”

Cullen remained silent, begrudgingly unlocking the door. He knew if Alexius returned to find his home damaged, Dorian would pay in one way or another. 

“Finally! Now get this through that thick Fereldan head of yours, I am not your enemy!” 

Inside the room, Cullen couldn’t pinpoint what irked him more, the slight against him, or the fact he could tell Dorian wasn’t lying. He returned to the bed. “I want to believe you.”

Dorian’s sigh filled the room, eyes shifting from Cullen to the floor. “I swore to help you, and I mean to do so. I will find a way to help you leave, but first you have to learn what you are capable of, and learn to use it.”

“What’s the point? I can’t go home. I certainly cannot return to the Order, not like this.”

“Not yet.” 


	5. Tested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Cullen await the arrival of the Archon's master witcher, Acasius. What follows is not only a test of strength, but of will.

A short month later, the villa had changed with the impending arrival of the master witcher, Acasius Fortix. The house staff was moved as a cautionary measure, for the old master had little regard for any life other than his own.

Cullen paced in the courtyard; his long strides meant to convey a certain confidence, but his mind reeled with expectations and charged anticipations _. If I pass this test, I move closer to leaving Tevinter,_ he thought, glancing toward Dorian.

He sat atop the garden wall; his nose half buried in a leather-bound journal. “It says here you risk death if too many potions are consumed.”

“Mmm-hmm. I’ll be sure to count.” Cullen didn’t shift his eyes from the ground as he walked, his sword tip trailing in the dusty ground.

“You’re going to dull the blade if you keep that up,” Dorian said, the edge to his voice teetering close to a reprimand.

“My blade is fine.” It was the exaggerated sigh in response that finally halted Cullen’s march. “What now, Dorian?” The tension in his shoulders wound tighter, and Cullen rolled his right shoulder twice, before doing the same with his left. “How much longer must I wait,” he grumbled.

“Maybe if you’d sit and listen for a little while or try to carry on a conversation of more than one or two words, the time would pass faster.” 

“Maybe if we talked about something other than witchers, potions, signs and had a real conversation? Perhaps then I’d say more than one or two words. I’ve had enough of this.” He growled and stabbed his sword into the loose earth. Cullen hated the way his impulses had changed. He wanted to shut Dorian up. He wanted to hit something, but more than anything else, he wanted—no needed—to break free. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath. _This isn’t who you are. You’re not going to hurt anyone._

“See? You can still converse, although you might remember I’m here to help.” Despite the danger and the unknown, Dorian found amusement in Cullen’s struggles. “Still thinking about throttling me where I stand, hmm?”

Without opening his eyes, Cullen replied. “Something like that.” He waited until the impulse waned and the coiled spring of tension loosened. “I’m not angry with you, I’m just—”

The crunch of stone and dirt underfoot and shuffling steps brought Dorian to Cullen’s side. “I know. You’re getting better at this, truly. I’ve read the tales. Witchers were near mindless beasts of burden and you, my friend, are the furthest thing from those tales.”

They’d gone through every possible story, book, and account Dorian could procure looking for answers, and found little help. Opening his eyes Cullen settled on his feet. “So, your master witcher is expecting an animal.”

The slight wrinkle to Dorian’s nose and brow confirmed Cullen’s assessment. “Very likely he is. As much as it pains me, maybe your one- and two-word responses are warranted, and see if you can slouch a bit. Your posture is too perfect.”

With a roll of his eyes, Cullen stepped away. “There’s nothing wrong with my posture.”

“That’s what I said. Slouch or hunch over or—”

Cullen lifted his arms in exasperation. “Why don’t I scurry about on my hands and feet? Grunt and drool when he arrives? How about a quick roll in the mud before—”

Dorian’s interruption drew a scoff from Cullen. “Ah, more melodrama. Won’t this be a fun afternoon?” Cullen began to walk away, leaving Dorian little choice other than to yell. “And try not to use phrases like _scurry about_ , it gives you away!”

“Why do you even care?” Hearing the rude edge and ungratefulness to his tone, Cullen apologized. “Forgive me. You’re the only one who, that is. . .thank you. I mean it.”

Dorian opened the journal and flipped through the pages shaking his head. “I’m afraid there’s no potion or mixture to help with that surly attitude of yours.” He closed the book and shrugged. “We’ll just have to muddle through it. You’re welcome, by the way, and I mean _that_ , too,” he said, lips twitching in a half smile. Climbing up the wall once more, Dorian settled with the book on his lap. “Shall we go through the signs again? Although, I’d suggest focusing on your shield, it might be in bad form to use anything else on your instructor.”

Despite the question forming in Cullen’s head, he knew the answer. “Anything new on Acasius?”

“Nothing good. Rumors mainly out of Quarinus. Acasius has the ear and favor of the Archon, which he flaunts quite regularly. If my little bird has her information right, you might very well end up standing before the Archon before month end.”

Cullen’s jaw tightened. _I won’t serve the Archon._

Holding up his hand, Dorian tried to reassure. “I know that look. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If that happens, you’ll go. I’ll insist on accompanying you. We’ll meet with my friend and start to formulate a plan—“

Raising a finger to his lips Cullen hushed Dorian. Displacement of stones and gravel suggested a procession nearby, but a low hum from the medallion against his chest alluded to an approaching danger.

Dorian’s question fell in a whisper. “What it is it?”

Even from across the courtyard Cullen heard a collection of footsteps. Anxious hurried footfalls drew nearer, then stopped; Cullen had no trouble identifying the owner, and he answered Dorian with quieted voice. “Alexius has returned.”

It was the one who followed Cullen couldn’t place. Slow and deliberate, the scuff of boot heels on the marble floor never slowed, despite Alexius’ starts and stops. Cullen turned on his heel, eyes fixed on Dorian. “It’s him. Acasius.”

l-l-l

For the first hour, Cullen listened as Acasius picked apart every flaw, real and imagined, while Alexius and Dorian stood silent. He allowed the witcher a wide berth in his comments and abuses, but when Acasius moved to grip Cullen’s jaw, he deflected the older man’s outstretched hand. Alexius offered apologies but was ignored.

Cullen stared without blinking. Acasius’ left eye had sustained some injury leaving the pupil and surrounding eye a milky white; a faint sliver of his elongated pupil appeared a muted grey beneath the discoloration. Nearly a head shorter, the older witcher showed no deference to his host and when he spoke, his disdain coated his comments.

“You failed, Gereon. This one has no bite to him. I’ve trained younger boys with more fire than this one.”

Cullen stiffened, his hand itching to grip his sword and prove the witcher wrong. Acasius snatched the lion’s head medallion resting against Cullen’s chest.

“Bah,” he said letting the metal head loose again. “Such disrespect. Viper, Wolf, Cat or Bear. Whose idea was the bloody lion?” Before Alexius could respond, Acasius continued. “Never mind.” The discordant scrape of Acasius’ sword against the metal guide ring of his harness served as a call to arms. “Let’s see if you’re a complete waste of my time.”

And then Acasius did something Cullen did not expect—giving Cullen his back, he strode away from him, sword at his side.

 _Is it a test? Does he wish to know if I would attack a man who gives me his back?_ In the sparring ring, it would be in bad form to attack before the action is called upon. Cullen did not move, tightening the grip on his sword and waited.

Acasius’ caustic laugh preceded a warning. “I’ll not do that again, you missed your chance.”

Despite knowing he should remain silent, Cullen answered. “I’ll not seek an easy win. Face me or don’t.”

“You’re either dense or brave, both equally weak qualities for a witcher.” He stopped at least a hundred feet from Cullen’s position. “Well? Now what?”

Cullen took confident strides at first. Two, four, six long steps until his pace gained speed and turned to a run; his path curving to the right ever so slightly until he reached Acasius and with a sliding gait, connected with Acasius’ sword. Once. Twice. Cullen slid around behind his target and landed another blow on Acasius’ shoulder using the flat side of the blade. In regular sparring, such actions were the stuff of insults. A mark of being caught unaware. Cullen’s blow carried the same unspoken taunt. 

If the hit irritated Acasius, he gave no outward sign, and remained still as Cullen completed the turn around his opponent. A glint of sunlight on metal caught Cullen’s attention and he raised his shield. Thanks to Dorian, Cullen had strengthened his attunement to the quen sign; the shield would discharge with a sharp burst to any in range. When it broke, Acasius fell back several steps with a grunt.

“Who taught you this?” Cullen remained silent, unwilling to implicate Dorian. His silence reflected in Acasius’ face with growing annoyance and anger. “Answer me!”

Cullen’s smirk appeared of its own volition, but once aware, he owned it; eyes locked on his foe, he silently challenged the other.

“That’s enough,” Alexius’ voice shook without authority or conviction. “We should—“

Without breaking his icy stare, Acasius replied through his tightening jaw. “I say when we are done.”

With mumbled agreement, Alexius left the courtyard, but Dorian remained atop the wall, Cullen didn’t miss the nod of conviction directed at him.

Before he could act, Acasius launched himself toward Cullen’s flank, with barely enough time to twist his torso away from the glancing blow. The blade’s edge sliced cleanly across Cullen’s forearm, but he refused to acknowledge the hit.

He attacked, spinning his body, taking the blade along. The first rotation met with a resounding clang as their swords collided. The second drew a grunt and a stagger from the older of the two witchers. Cullen stood at the ready. He tightened his grip firm waiting for his opponent’s next move.

Acasius’ forearm tensed before he moved, and Cullen was ready, easily parrying the blow aimed for his face. Unbalanced and unfocused, the old witcher slashed and swung his sword without precision; it was a tactic used to disorient; Cullen had learned it well when he began sword training in the Order.

Rather than follow the lead, Cullen charged; an upward slice breaking through the haphazard swings. Too late, Cullen saw the half-hidden sign drawn at the old witcher’s side, sending him flying backward and knocking him into the ground, his head impacting with the dirt.

“I killed a red lion, one of the last of its kind. It was like you,” Acasius spat. He breathed fast and heavy, his words bursting out with his exhales. “Far too cautious, it watched instead of attacking. _Just like you_.” He lowered his sword, pacing before Cullen. “You fight like a Templar. A witcher has no allegiance—to anyone. Remember that. The next time we meet, I will take your head. Make sure you take mine first.”

Cullen heard the dismissal in the old man’s voice. He’d been judged and found wanting. Clamoring to his feet, Cullen saw Dorian shake his head in a slow and deliberate fashion; a warning to do nothing. Staring back at Dorian he tried to imply he wanted to continue, despite knowing Dorian understanding was an impossibility. _He’s tiring. I could finish him._ Again, Dorian rejected any further engagement. Anger surged and seethed, Cullen wanting nothing more than to honor Acasius’ wish.

“You’re not fit for any other witcher’s mark. So, wear the lion, wear the visage of a once proud breed and hope you do not follow them into extinction.” Acasius sheathed his sword and spoke to Cullen. “The Archon demands an audience, and you are expected, Fereldan. Take the time to fit yourself with proper armor and decide what kind of witcher you will be when you stand before the Imperium.

Cullen’s narrowing eyes followed Acasius’ departure. _Oh, I already have. If a monster is what the Archon wants to see, I’ll give him a monster. Whatever it takes to bring you back—you and your head._

l-l-l

Agitation kept Cullen from sleep; he’d not been permitted to leave the villa. I _can’t say how long it’s been, months? It could be a year or maybe more._ Forced to dress in the attire of a noble, Cullen pulled at the stiff collar of his tunic and jacket several times, until he tore the jacket apart at the lapel seam.

Dorian’s quick thinking remedied the problem with a dark hooded cloak from his room. He thrust the bundle toward Cullen at the villa’s gate before pushing him toward the carriage. “It’s the only one I have, and I’m a bit partial to it, so be gentle.”

A quickly mumbled apology was tossed aside. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were a bundle of nerves.”

“I didn’t sleep,” Cullen stopped before he admitted he hadn’t gotten a moment of rest all night. “Much,” he said.

“We’ll have about an hour or so before we reach the palace,” Dorian said as he climbed into the carriage with Cullen following; they sat opposite one another. Dorian leaned against the plush cushions. “Ah luxury. There’s nothing quite like it, especially at the expense of another. Acasius was right, the Archon already favors you, Cullen.” He peeked around the window curtain’s edge as the carriage passed through the gate. “And I am all too willing to enjoy this,” Dorian said, straightening his posture. “As your guide, of course.”

Cullen didn’t answer, choosing instead to ignore Dorian’s laughter. He stared out the small side window. _I’d prefer to be stuck in the villa._ After a short length of time over bumps and uneven road, the ride smoothed, and Cullen leaned back in his seat. “I don’t see what the urgency is, or why I need to dress or even wear the cloak. I would assume the city is crawling with witchers. Acasius seemed to suggest there were more.”

Dorian’s heavy sigh grabbed Cullen’s attention; it was a denial without words. “There are more witchers in Tevinter, aren’t there?” 

It was the way Dorian stared at his feet that answered the question. He’d never been evasive, not when asked and certainly not with anything concerning witchers. “Well, actually. There’s two. You, naturally and Acasius.”

“Now you’re messing with me. There are more. What happened to the…” Cullen searched his memory for all the books, lessons and discussions pertaining to witchers. “The Black Guard still guards the Archon, you told me of them. The ones like me with white hair. And what of the Senate guards?”

Dorian’s silence reignited Cullen’s concerns. He shifted his eyes away, searching his memory for anything to grab hold and push Dorian to answer. Tapping his forehead with a fist, a small glimmer of remembrance redirected the conversation “What was her name,” he said in a half whisper. “Tale…Tall….Till…that’s it.” He pointed at Dorian. “Tilani. Maeveris—Mae. Your friend. She had a witcher in her employ. What of him?”

Dorian’s body jostled with the carriage as it passed over uneven road, and he met Cullen’s concern with a cold stare. “They’re all dead. Killed in secret raids by the Left Hand of the Divine.”

His brow furrowed and expression soured. “Then why are we going? Am I to be hunted? You took me from my home, my family for this?”

“No, you’re the hope of the Imperium. The glorious triumph and seed of the plan to dominate Thedas once more.” The lack of conviction in Dorian’s proclamation suggested he didn’t subscribe to any of those notions.

Cullen crossed his arms. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous.” He shifted toward the edge of his seat, reaching toward the carriage door handle.

“Will you jump? Be reasonable.” Dorian sighed. “I’ll say this. I’m certain we’re far better off with you disguised under the cloak. Archon Radonis is far more cunning than his predecessor, and no doubt has eyes throughout the city awaiting our arrival. It’s been a year, and Acasius seemed certain the spies have departed the city.”

“We’ll see.”

Dorian resumed his more relaxed posture and shrugged. “We’re to visit the armorer first, and then we’ll stop and visit with Mae. You should be more concerned with that little side trip than the presence of spies.” 

l-l-l

Tapping his chin with an index finger, Dorian circled Cullen while inspecting the armor. “Can you breathe? It’s terribly snug.”

Every remaining ounce of politeness had been drained from Cullen’s body as he squeezed into the new armor. “I can breathe and move and do just about anything but endure any more of your questions and…and ogling.”

Chuckling, Dorian crossed the room to fall into an oversized chair. “Give me a little credit? I’m concerned you might hurt yourself with a deep breath, not taking visual measurements for future reference.”

Cullen snorted a laugh.

“Try not to do that in front of others; it’s bad manners.”

“So is making me wait. How long must we sit here?” Cullen’s deliberate steps carried him toward the window, but the surprising mobility of the tiny rings that comprised his armor gave him pause. He rolled one shoulder and then the other. “It’s lighter than I thought and moves quite well.”

Draining the wine pitcher, Dorian stared into it, as if he might have missed a drop. “Of course. This is not Ferelden with its crude methods, you know. Such craftsmanship takes years of practice and plenty of coercion to get it perfect.”

 _Coercion?_ Cullen turned on his heel. “You’re not serious, are you?”

The smirk on Dorian’s face answered him first. “Of course, I’m not serious. You really are a mess, my friend. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. If Mae picks up on your uncertainties, so will the Archon.”

Cullen tested the mobility of his armor, even drew and sheathed his swords a few times. “You worry far too much. If all I am expected to do is scowl and appear menacing. I think I can handle it.”


	6. Presented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian takes Cullen to meet Maeveris Tilani. With her support, Cullen might have a way free of Archon's reach.

“He’s not a toy,” Dorian said with a frown.

Maeveris Tilani waved Dorian’s concern with a toss of her hand, gathering the hem of her cobalt blue gown as she descended the side staircase. “I know he’s not a toy, Dorian. Remember, only one of us here has had real experience with witchers.”

“How can I ever forget? You sought me for this little endeavor, remember?” Dorian matched her step for step. “What was it you said?” He paused on the landing mid-way down and tapped his chin. “Satisfy my father’s demands and a favor for you in one tiny little endeavor?”

She scoffed. “I found you cavorting about in that poor excuse for a brothel. There were better establishments.”

“I was drinking, not cavorting.” A deeper frown creased his face. “You should have warned me how violent and abhorrent the whole process would be,” he said taking the stairs a bit faster and waited at the bottom for her.

Maeveris halted her descent and faced him. “I didn’t know. It wasn’t as if I’d ever seen a transformation, just the result.” Her eyes unfocused. “None of those witchers I knew ever spoke of it except with reverence; as if it was such a profound experience, we mere mortals couldn’t possibly comprehend.”

An involuntary shiver shook Dorian. “Mae. I don’t know I’ll ever be able to forget his cries. It wasn’t. . .this is not what I wanted.”

She raised a brow, and then her expression softened. “You. . .you care for him?”

His answer came out slowly, quieted and pensive. “Despite all we did to Cullen, he calls me friend, and I see him as such.” Dorian shook his head and continued normally. “Enough sentiment, will you help him or not?”

Her reassuring squeeze at his shoulder preceded a smile. “Let’s see, I get to stick it to the Archon, help my dearest friend, and earn the favor of a witcher? Dorian, did you really think I would pass at this opportunity?” Craning her neck, Maeveris looked toward the salon and the dining area. “So, where is he?”

Dorian took the lead. “Proper introductions all around then? He’s waiting in the library.”

l-l-l

Cullen had gathered a few books and sat with his back against the window ledge. _Dorian only started teaching me Tevene, I should have picked volumes written in the common language._ A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the late hour. “We’ll never make it to the tavern before nightfall,” he said aloud.

Closing the book, he picked up the small pile, planning to return each to its proper place. As he passed the library entrance, the double doors opened revealing Dorian and a woman he assumed was Maeveris Tilani. She was dressed for a formal affair. Rich cobalt fabric caught the torchlight in such a way that it shimmered as brightly as the silver accents on the shoulders. A similarly iridescent shawl cascaded from one shoulder. The excess caught his attention more than anything else, but Dorian had instructed Cullen on basic courtesies, proper greetings for nobility, and for his meeting with the Archon the following day. Dorian had been somewhat vague when sharing his knowledge of Maeveris; Cullen hadn’t fully understood why until now.

There were subtleties he noted in her physical presence and voice. Her dress was fitted, but intentionally so to create an illusion. Something scratched at the back of his head. It confused the messages his senses were telling him. _Doesn’t matter, don’t embarrass yourself or Dorian, be polite and respectful._ Remembering Dorian’s teachings, he held out his hand. “My lady,” he said with a slight bow.

“See Dorian, proper manners win me over every time,” she placed her hand in his. “A pleasure to meet you Cullen.”

He followed Dorian’s instructions to the letter, raising her hand to his lips, but allowed no contact with her skin. Instead, he gently rubbed his thumb across her fingers. Her fingers were not slender, but defined, even robust. Even his limited exposure to women in the circle gave Cullen enough of a reference to note yet another difference in her person. _She’s agreed to help me. What does it matter?_ Elsewhere in the room, Dorian cleared his throat, breaking Cullen free of his thoughts, necessitating a quick apology.

Maeveris laughed with such amusement, Cullen wondered if he’d gone too far or lingered too long. She kept ahold of his hand and moved close enough to whisper. “Do that to all you meet, and you’ll have every single one of them eating out of your hand.”

Dorian yawned dramatically, and Cullen couldn’t help the smirk growing on his face. His reaction amused Maeveris even more. She slipped from his grasp and patted Cullen’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine,” she said with a wink. “Dorian on the other hand? You could take a few lessons from the little cub.”

“Little cub? Mae, I know your little habit of pet names, but little cub?”

She pointed toward the lion’s head medallion. “It’s appropriate. How old are you, Cullen?”

“Seventeen.”

“See?” She stared at Dorian. “I know enough to see through the transformation, dear boy. Cullen may appear to be older, but it’s clear in his manners he is quite young.” She turned toward Cullen. “I hope you took no offense, you’ve been well versed, and you just need a touch of confidence to match your appearance.”

His interest piqued, Cullen asked if Maeveris might help him act appropriately. The laughter from the other two confused him. “Have I said something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Maeveris said. “There are many who might disagree with me instructing anyone on appropriate behavior,” she wheeled around and pointed at Dorian. “Not a word, my friend.”

“Perish the thought,” Dorian replied with his hands raised in supplication.

Maeveris continued. “You’re a witcher Cullen. Regardless of how you really feel, you must be the cleverest, the most intelligent and the most dangerous man in the room. You must appear as though you already know everything and need no one’s permission. Confidence should flow through your veins and radiate from every part of you.”

Cullen stood silent, considering her words until she addressed him directly. “Have you eaten?” When Cullen looked to Dorian, she stepped between them. “It’s not a trick question, it’s late, I suspect Dorian assumed I’d handle dinner arrangements, which I have.”

He nodded and then quickly remembered his manners. “If it’s not too much trouble, my lady?”

She met his confusion with bright blue eyes. “Cullen. If we’re to be friends, you must call me Maeveris, although I would prefer Mae. Besides, the more who hear we’re on such familiar terms, the better.” She linked her arm through his and led Cullen toward the dining room.

Dorian followed close behind them. “Don’t add more confusion to this trip, _Mae_. Cullen will need to address all properly in public and you know it. We don’t need to cause a ruckus, in fact, it would be better to remain as hidden as possible.”

The sudden change in mood struck Cullen more far more somber than he’d witnessed in some time. “Why hidden? I thought the city was free from harm.”

Maeveris sat next to Cullen. “I believe so, but how much has Dorian told you about the witchers in Tevinter?”

It was Dorian who answered first. “He knows, Mae. Unless you’ve discovered proof of survivors?”

There was a deepening sadness overtaking her face as she replied. “The last two left with a Warden some time ago. Except for that madman, there are no others.” Her brow creased and she reached for Cullen. “Cullen—do not underestimate Acasius Fortix; he is not to be trusted. You threaten his position with the Archon.”

“I’ve tried to explain it.” Dorian rose with a sigh. “My concern is centered more on his attitude toward the Archon. Cullen doesn’t understand that one can’t simply speak to him as we are right now.”

They’d had this conversation several times on the road. “I’m not going to bend a knee or kiss his ring.”

Cullen didn’t need enhanced senses to note Dorian’s frustration. He tossed his hands up and turned away; even his mumbled curse in Tevene was one of exasperation. “Mae, please. Explain it to him.”

She smiled, and despite the genuine feel to her presence, Cullen saw the entire conversation as patronizing. “I don’t need a lesson, Dorian. I need enough to get me through it.”

“Tevinter is not the south, little cub. There are consequences for differences and the different. One must never forget that.”

He scoffed in response. “Forgive me. Is it common for all Tevinters to always speak in vague generalities?” Cullen quieted his voice. “Why must you all sound as though you hide behind a deep secret that none can know? What is so abhorrent about the truth?”

Her mouth fell open, but Mae quickly recovered, wagging her finger at him. “You’ve been holding out on me little cub. So, you _are_ learned, aren’t you? Not so the brute, but more the scholar?”

“I was a Templar, not a simpleton,” he said with a scowl.

Dorian hissed a rebuke, but Maeveris waved it away. “I know, Cullen. I’d so hoped to begin a friendship with you. What would convince you of my sincerity? Would you know of my secrets then? Is that what it would take to earn your trust?”

“I meant no disrespect, my lady—”

“None was taken, my little cub. I am a firm believer in knowing one’s allies as well as one’s opponents. Sometimes they can be one and then same, especially in Tevinter, but that is a story for another time.”

Once more Dorian spoke up. “Cullen, Maeveris is a dear friend, and will be yours as well. There is no cause for concern and no need to question motives here.”

“Now Dorian, there you go again. We are simply having a chat. Cullen is quite right to have questions.” She tapped her index finger against her lips. “A little veracity between new friends can make all the difference.”

“I don’t understand,” Cullen said.

Maeveris took a step closer. “It’s a simple exchange. I'll share a truth and then you can and then, we move on." She talked for a moment or two before Cullen realized he wasn’t paying attention and focused on her voice. “I was born my father’s son but knew that wasn’t who I was. I live as I want, not as others define me.”

"Then you are blessed." 

By the warm grin on her face, his simple acceptance was appropriate. She held his eyes. "And what of you?"

There was little harm. _I have no secrets_ , he thought at first, until the memory of golden ringed curls, a sly smile, and Solona’s sharp sense of humor floated into his head. His eyes unfocused as he spoke softly. “I had a friend at Kinloch Hold,” he began with a sigh. “She was. . .special. If I had been anyone but a Templar, perhaps then. . .”

“A lovely memory, I can tell. Perhaps you will find her again.”

“No,” his reply was swift and sharp. “Not like this. I am no longer who I once was. I would not be accepted as I am now. That life is over.” He did not meet her eyes.

"Well, I believe your life is _far_ from over. You never know where the path may take you."

Cullen couldn’t help the melancholy seeping into his voice. “I envy your convictions.”

A firm grip grabbed his arm, pulling Cullen along with her toward an oversized mirror hanging on the wall. Gold flakes speckled the mirrors surface, suggesting it more for decoration than practicality. “Take a long look at yourself,” she said. “Go on, reflections don’t bite. At least, I haven’t discovered a reliable spell for that little trick, so you’re safe. Who do you see?”

Not wishing to be rude, he complied. The man in the mirror was far older than he remembered himself, maybe five or ten years older. His face was lined, and his hair stark white fell in curled waves to his shoulders. A generous gathering of stubble had grown. It too was different from his memory. But it was the golden eyes, the pupils stretched and elongated like a beast that disturbed the image of himself the most. “Someone I do not know,” Cullen replied.

A gentle squeeze of his arm pulled his attention toward Mae’s reflection. “You are a catalyst for change, Cullen. You can make a difference. Recognize the truth in others and help them. You’ll discover who you are along the way. I see you. It’ll take time for you to do the same.”

Maeveris hadn’t lost her joviality, despite the serious turn to their conversation. She met his eyes unwavering and straightened her posture. “Now, if you wish to get through it as you said, you will stop your contradictory behavior, sit down and be quiet.” She gave him little time to argue, pushing him toward a chair. “I say this because you must have some idea of your predicament. Surely, Dorian explained the hierarchy we all abide under. You’re — and forgive me for saying this, but you’re his property.”

A rich laugh caused Dorian to cringe, but Cullen didn’t stop. Crossing his arms, he leaned back in the chair, unfazed. “Wait a moment, I’m trying to picture this. I’m. . .I’m what?”

A serious pall covered the room, and Dorian grabbed one of Cullen’s shoulders. “Of all the pig headed—” He inhaled long and deep. “Listen to me. You are not free, Cullen. You belong to the Imperium, remember?”

All mirth drained away, replaced by a defiant jaw and narrowing eyes. “Is that right?” He shifted on the chair.

“Cullen!” The plea beneath Dorian’s voice stopped his departure. “Remember our agreement. I will help you, but to do that you must not anger the Archon. Be pleasant. No, be silent. Just nod or answer in single word replies, but whatever you do, do not antagonize him. Better to be thought a mute and be spared, than to pick a fight you will not win.”

We’ll see about that, Cullen thought, his frown digging deeper lines on his face. “The Archon needs me," he said darkly. “I’ll not grovel before him.”

Maeveris intervened. “No one is asking you to, but you must keep a level head.”

The implied threat wasn’t lost on him; Cullen kept his voice even. “And if I don’t?"

Her sigh answered before she did. “Then we lose our chance to strengthen our position and take back the Imperium without the Archon’s antiquated rules. Could you walk away from a plea for help?”

“No. I suppose I would not, but please understand—I never asked for this.” Cullen quickly apologized; Maeveris didn’t deserve his scorn.

“I know,” she said, resting her hand against his cheek. “You’re like another I knew. In appearance, your face and demeanor speak of years of living, but inside, you’re still just a cub, Cullen.”

He wanted to believe her, that she understood what he felt. “No one gave me a choice; the man I was is gone.”

She looked away from him. “That’s what Velkin used to say. He mourned the child’s life lost to become a witcher.” She stopped talking and sat back in her chair, her fingers resting against her lips. “He. . .it doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “He couldn’t make a difference as we’d hoped. The Seekers took him.”

A heavy silence descended between them, but Dorian took the lead, offering a firm hand of comfort on Maeveris’ shoulder. She patted his hand in return. “I’ll help you.” She stood, smoothed the fabric of her gown, and promised to return. “Eat. I have something I believe should be yours,” she said to Cullen, before departing the room.

Her confidence melted into something else as she departed; her shoulders caved inward, and head hung lower than he’d seen. She seemed almost pained, even burdened by that memory. Who was this Velkin? Cullen pushed his plate away. “We shouldn’t be here. I’ve upset the lady.”

“No, you did exactly as I hoped,” replied Dorian. “You reminded her of the reasons why we need her help.”

Shaking his head, Cullen said nothing more. _This was a mistake. I’d wanted allies. Hurting someone to get there isn’t right._ He closed his eyes. _Purpose before pride, witcher._ The spirit’s words hadn’t held any meaning until now. _The witcher in me could walk over anyone of my choosing and not care._ He glanced at Dorian, noting he held a concerned look on his face, staring in the direction Maeveris had taken. “I won’t use her, Dorian. If the lady offers her help, so be it, but I’ll not play some game to get what I want.”

“Good. Qui totum vult totum perdit.” With a slight glance in Cullen’s direction, Dorian continued. “It’s an old saying. He who wants everything loses everything.”

They sat in silence, neither touching the selection of fruit and cheeses set before them. _Maybe I should apologize,_ Cullen thought. They waited for a fair amount of time before Cullen stood. “I should apologize.”

Dorian disagreed. “No, you should sit and wait.” He shifted in his chair. “Close your eyes and listen. What do you hear?”

Cullen had all but forgotten he had the ability to determine the situation. “You’re right.”

There was a slight twitch to Dorian’s upper lip, and Cullen wasn’t sure what to expect. Without malice, he answered. “Of course, I’m right. Now hush and tell me what you hear. Time to see what you can really do.”

Cullen exhaled slow and easy, pushing aside his uncertainty, and listened.

Behind him, the clink and clatter of trays and pottery mixed with laughter amid stern instruction. The odor of roasting root vegetables hung faintly in the air. “The kitchen is behind me, nothing more than conversation and cooking vegetables.”

“Cullen. I can tell that from here. Come on! Really focus. What about upstairs?” Dorian settled in his chair and waited.

It was the sound that caught Cullen’s attention first. Rustling. Heavy objects shifting on wood floors, scraping as they moved. “Someone is moving something heavy.”

“And?” Dorian prodded gently, but enough for Cullen to raise his brow, prompting another gentle admonishment. “Don’t start, just do it.”

 _All right_ , he thought. He caught the sound of wood scraping against wood. _A voice raised in anger?_ Several exasperated curses in Tevene changed his assessment. _Not anger at all, it’s annoyance,_ he concluded. Objects impacted the floor at irregular intervals. “A search,” he said, “but for what?”

And then he heard it. A sound so discordant and familiar, he couldn’t dismiss it. Metal scraped against metal. The sound of a blade’s edge against its guide ring pulled him to action and he stood, preparing to bolt. “A weapon,” he hissed and took to the stairs, ignoring Dorian’s questions.

Cullen understood the truth of his presence. Dorian’s personal influence was limited. Maeveris was the key to his future, and a safe return to Ferelden. _If I lose her, he thought, I will belong to the Imperium._

Despite taking two steps at a time, Cullen strained to listen for signs of a struggle. When he reached the landing, two long corridors widened the problem. Calling out to her would reveal his presence but doing nothing was worse. “Maeveris! Mae!” Cullen cried out her name and then listened, hoping for a response or a sign of which direction he should take. Dorian reached him first. “Mae’s room is at the end of the hall, are there others in the house?” Dorian had primed his magic; a purple orb of energy pulsed and glowed in his right hand.

"I don’t know,” Cullen said, voice low and nearing a growl. “Stay here.”


	7. Prepared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen receives a proper set of witcher swords from Maeveris, but it may not be enough for his presentation to the Archon. Secreted deep underground, Cullen learns even more troubling news, and wonders what or who may be waiting for him at the Imperial Seat in Minrathous.

Cullen picked up speed sprinting toward the end of the hall. He called out to Maeveris again, and nearly crashed through the door in his haste. _She’s not answering—or unable to speak._

Inside the room, not a single torch was lit, no candles burned, leaving the room in total darkness. The lion’s head against his skin thrummed with such strength he had but one conclusion. _This room is heavily warded, but against what?_ Cullen shook the thought away and managed a quick scan of the room before issuing a demand. “Show yourself.” His sharp tone was meant to convey his thoughts. _Whoever you are, don’t mess with me._ A gasp of shock preceded the metallic clatter of a sword falling against the marble floor.

_The sound came from behind those screens._

Several lacquered privacy screens separated a portion of the room from his immediate view. Dorian’s approach was halted with a raised hand from Cullen as he took slow steps deeper into the room. The muffled rustle of cloth or curtains behind the screens drew him closer. Cullen held his breath, each step slow and muffled to mask his movement.

 _Almost there,_ he thought, ready to clear the blind corner.

Cullen turned quickly, reaching forward toward a figure, but a burst of light flung toward him necessitated a shift to his left just before a bolt of magic narrowly missed his head. He drew the Quen sign quickly to raise his shield from another attack.

“Let the lady go.” His order was far more controlled, almost whispered as his eyes scanned the large bed chamber for Maeveris.

The answer was hissed, barely audible, but the message was clear. “Not a chance.” Another blast sailed toward him, but it impacted the floor instead of against his shield.

 _They missed? Something’s off_ , he thought, taking a step closer. From this distance he could easily incapacitate his opponent. “Don’t. You’ll lose.” The silence that followed did little to put Cullen at ease; he remained steadfast, every muscle taut and poised to attack.

Feigned laughter and a few sharp exhales preceded a response. “Close, but you should lower the timbre of your voice, more like growl. Although I am impressed how you dashed to my aid, you failed to ascertain the truth before barreling into the room.” Maeveris gripped a candlestick in her hand, lighting the candle with a simple flick of her fingers.

“My lady?” Cullen hadn’t expected a lesson. Only the slightest tremor buried in her speech suggested she was a little unsettled. “What truth?”

Her lips twitched. “I was retrieving a gift for you, little cub. I wasn’t in danger.” Maeveris nodded toward a sword near her feet, her hands clasped together tight. “That is quite possibly the last silver sword that will ever be forged in Tevinter—and now it, along with its mate, are yours.”

Cullen stared at the silver blade and began to reach for it. He paused and directed his attention to her in a silent request for permission.

“Of course,” she said with a slight incline of her head. “As I said, it is yours.” As Cullen reached for the hilt, a line of runes etched along the center of the blade glowed red, halting his action.

“Is this magic?” Cullen hesitated, his hand hovering over the sword.

“Of a kind—yes. Consider it much like your medallion,” she offered. “An early warning of something other worldly.”

He frowned. _Other worldly_. Cullen considered the implication of her chosen words. “You mean monsters. Like me.”

Crossing in arms, Maeveris stood rigid, her eyes holding his unflinchingly. “Spare me your self-admonishments, Cullen. They are wholly unattractive. You might consider the advantages before you.”

Cullen’s right hand tightened until the knuckles whitened from the effort, but he said nothing. He closed his eyes and breathed deep until he felt a hand rest on his other arm. Maeveris stood next to him. “You are so very like my friend. I wish you could have known him. It is his swords that will be yours.” She held out a dagger. “A little blood as a means of introduction will guarantee the sword will know you. It will never judge you again.”

“Mae,” interrupted Dorian. “He’s still a Templar at heart. Perhaps find something other than blood magic in this instance?”

She sighed. “It’s only a little and it’s not as though I plan to use it. Once the blade knows its owner, it will only glow when there are foes about. Would that satisfy you Dorian? Cullen?”

Accepting the dagger, Cullen gripped the blade in his palm and with a quick jerk, sliced the skin deep enough to draw blood, ignoring Dorian’s protests. _I need a proper blade. What I do not need are constant reminders of my inhumanity._ Maeveris retrieved the sword with some effort and held it flat, instructing him to smear his blood on the flat side of the blade while Maeveris intoned a few words. A violet light encircled the sword through her incantation until she fell silent and offered the blade to him.

“Try again.”

He reached toward the weapon, expecting the runes to denounce him again, but this time, nothing happened. Cullen took the sword in hand, expecting its weight and balance to be suited for another. Despite the length and composition, it was far lighter than he had imagined. Cullen lifted it with little effort, wondering if his training had been incorrect. “Star metal coated in silver should be far heavier, perhaps your smith deceived you.”

Maeveris only laughed, earning a raised brow from Cullen. “You’re a witcher. It is as light as air in your grip, as it should be. You’ll wield it with one hand, allowing the other free.”

 _For the signs,_ Cullen concluded. _I’d wondered how I would manage a proper sword and use signs in combat._ Cullen had argued that very point repeatedly with Dorian, claiming there was no possible way to do both. He turned to Dorian. “You were right. I should have trusted you.”

l-l-l

Long before the sun rose over Minrathous, Cullen and Dorian donned cloaks and hurried through the streets, taking care to remain unnoticed. Alexius expected Cullen to be ready for his presentation to the Archon and alerting anyone to their presence might work against them. After careful but quick passage through alleys and between buildings, the two waited at a side door.

The stone walls were dark and appeared almost charred. Far too many showed signs of wear and erosion; spaces where mortar had held them in place had crumbled away. _How is this still standing_ , Cullen wondered. _This cannot be the Archon’s home_. His disbelief carried in a single question. “This is the Imperial Seat?”

“It’s the equivalent of a palace, Cullen. We can hardly walk to the front door and announce our arrival. Caution is required. This is a lesser known entrance. The Archon ascended only recently; his predecessor was assassinated.”

“Wonderful,” Cullen said. “So, if this is not the same Archon, why are we here?”

Dorian seemed unconcerned. “Whatever is best for the Imperium. Who knows? Call it curiosity, call it an obsession with power, why does it matter? The point is, we _are_ here, and _you_ are still expected.”

Cullen didn’t want to dwell on the negative thoughts digging through his mind. _I’ve got a bad feeling about this._ “What if this Archon decides my termination is what’s best for the Imperium?”

It was the halfhearted laugh that troubled Cullen even more. “If that were the case, I believe Acasius would have killed you at the villa. You’re worrying. Don’t. It diminishes the persona you must maintain while we are here.”

Dorian turned toward the door. It was unremarkable, even dingy in appearance, although not as decayed as the surrounding stones. A carving of a tall, cloaked figure standing in a boat the only adornment. He carried a lantern in one hand and a thin pole in the other. _The Archon’s symbol is a ferryman. This must be it_ , Cullen recalled from his lessons.

“This is the entrance? Hardly a palace.”

“This is the entrance we’ve been allowed to use. It leads below,” Dorian explained. “The catacombs of the city connect many places through tunnels and passages, but this one will take us to where Alexius waits and he will guide you into the palace. It will open at the agreed upon hour.”

Scowling beneath the hood, Cullen pressed for a more direct answer. “And what is the agreed upon hour?”

Behind the door, Cullen heard a heavy object hit the ground with a clunk. Chains rattled as they were pulled through their guide rings and it swung inward.

An elf peered out, until a robed man pushed forward. “Only the witcher may enter.”

Cullen shifted protectively in front of Dorian. “Both of us.”

The robed man glared at Cullen. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Standing at least a head taller than the man, Cullen removed his hood and stepped close. Employing all Maeveris had told him, he grumbled until a growl sat low in his throat. Small steps encroached on the man, until the envoy backed away, eyes widening. When his back hit the wall of the entryway, the man raised his hands, shielding his face.

Cullen heard Dorian whisper. “Impressive, but we need him to lead us.”

The elf bowed before them. “He is the steward of this passage. I am your guide, Master Witcher, my name is Geven.”

l-l-l

Led through firelit tunnels, Cullen’s attempts to remain unmoved were in vain. Cramped passages opened into wide rotundas complete with fountains and cushioned benches. After reaching the third such waiting area, Dorian was asked sit and wait. Cullen’s protests met with gentle refusals from their guide.

“Master Witcher, I must insist. I swear on my life’s blood your companion will come to no harm. It is forbidden upon penalty of death to strike a guest of the Archon in these halls. None would dare.” Geven assured Dorian an attendant would arrive and assist him as soon as they had crossed the barrier into the palace.

Huge iron gates stood guard before them. “The locks cannot be opened by strength or magic. Only two have the key to its secrets.”

The key, such as it was proved to be a complex puzzle of shifting gears and subtle moves. Cullen’s attention focused on the patterns and found nothing comprehensible. “The shapes keep changing, is the solution random?”

Geven didn’t answer at first, his ministrations the sole focus. Once the gears began to turn and the gate swung open, he replied. “Yes, Master Witcher. The Archon’s magic shifts the shape and size every few minutes. It’s nearly impossible to memorize. I practice with a smaller set whenever possible.”

“Cullen. My name is Cullen.” Geven shrunk back a few steps, and Cullen quickly apologized. “I mean you no harm. If I’ve frightened you, I apologize.” He held out his hand. “I should have given my name when we met.”

Geven stared at Cullen’s offered hand. His eyes rose to meet Cullen’s and then he shook his head. “It is not permitted. My instructions were clear. Find the witcher. Lead him through the passages. Prepare him, but do not interfere. I have met your kind before and learned to assume nothing.” He turned and continued, leaving Cullen confused and more than a little concerned.

“Now just a moment!” His voice bounced across the passage, startling Geven and halting his steps. Cullen caught up to Geven in a few strides. “I am not like others. Actually, I don’t know any others except for Acasius.” At the mention of the old witcher’s name, Cullen was near to certain Geven had flinched. “I see you know him, at least,” Cullen said flatly.

The cordiality of Geven’s voice disappeared, and his words fell out quietly. “What I know is how many of those I have called friend met with untimely ends. What I know is that Master Fortix is not pleased with your arrival. You travel these passages at the Archon’s behest. He and his daughter are very eager to meet you—in private. Now. We are nearly there, and this conversation never took place.”


	8. Judged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gereon Alexius leads Cullen to meet the new Archon. The passages beneath the palace are held together by magic and secrets, one more terrible than the other. Armed with warnings from those he has met, Cullen's curiosity gets the better of his sensibilities when an unexpected detour sets Cullen squarely before someone most formidable.

Between Mae’s guidance and Geven’s warning, Cullen retreated within as he and Alexius moved through dimly lit corridors and crumbling passageways. He’d tucked a folded parchment from Geven into his pouch, still unsure if he should have accepted the note. Geven’s parting words left Cullen confused, along with the direction to hold the parchment until the right person presented themselves to him.

_“If all goes well above, mark well my name. I am known for opening all sorts of doors. An open door can illuminate even the darkest of places. Remember that.”_

His amulet thrummed without pause, confirming what instinct and a never-ending stream of sensory messages suggested. Minrathous was dying. Not in the sense of its people, but the city itself.

Stone struggled against magical bonds meant to keep it from disintegrating. Built in ages past, the masonry and structure begged for release, but instead remained enslaved by magic. As they walked, Cullen was certain the spells were compounded, even layered. Each new layer meant to strengthen the previous in a desperate attempt to maintain its façade. Maeveris had given it definition.

_"The Imperium is the very embodiment of hubris, Cullen. The fact you hear this from me with a witcher’s ears is proof. You will see more soon enough."_

Her words rang true, but he understood more as their trek continued. The scent changed with every new floor. The stale air of lower passageways had taken on a musty odor; Cullen assumed they passed under a body of water but couldn’t remember seeing one on the maps he’d been given. He noted Alexius’ breathing became more labored and he covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve.

 _I should ask if he’s unwell,_ Cullen thought, but a voice deep inside his head suggested he really didn’t care to know. _Asking will only invite trouble._

Instead he inhaled deeply, wondering if he might discern if there was something beneath his initial assessment of the space. Another deep inhale brought forth an underlying rot, something so foul. It wasn’t rubbish or remnants of animal droppings or even a carcass. Cullen’s eyes widened as the thought of something unspeakable entered his mind. _Something decays down one of these passages, and it’s meant to remain out of sight._

“What—”

He’d barely questioned it when Alexius hushed him, barking at Cullen to hurry. Only when they reached an iron door and crossed through did Alexius speak.

“That was far worse than I remember,” he said softly.

“What was that?”

Alexius shook his head in refusal. “It’s better to move on.”

Crossing his arms and settling on his feet, Cullen made it clear he wanted to know.

For a moment Cullen wondered if Alexius would argue or refused, but a slight dip in his posture suggested the answer was being carefully considered. “You’ve been told of the succession, but every change carries the possibility of rejection or rebellion. Sometimes,” he paused, not meeting Cullen’s curious gaze. “Well, sometimes violence is the only way to—”

Cullen finished the sentence. “To get what you want, is that it?” He sighed. “So, what did we just pass through?”

“Recidivists from the previous regime. Those who refused to accept what must be and defied the Archon’s will.”

Alexius said nothing more, instead pressing on, leading them up another staircase. At the top, another heavy door blocked their exit, but Cullen was certain he could see natural light through the gaps.

Passing through, the presence of sunlight and the fresh early morning washed away the dank odors, but not Cullen’s apprehensions. _This Archon uses violence with those who oppose him._ Cullen all but ignored Gereon Alexius in favor of deciphering what the change in leadership and the new Archon’s interest in him might mean.

“The steward required several draughts to calm his nerves, you know. Let’s be a bit less menacing in the Archon’s presence, hmmm?”

Cullen arched an eyebrow but didn’t answer. _Anything I say will invite conversation._ He stood tall, walked in long strides, but kept far enough distance to give the illusion of Alexius’ control over him. The truth was far closer to the unsettled steward. _I have no fear of Alexius, and that concerns him._ A few steps ahead of him, Alexius carried on as though Cullen hung on his every word.

“You’ll be presented in the receiving room, first,” Alexius said. “Remember to bow without meeting his eyes.”

“Don’t stare. Understood.” His acknowledgement may have been more curt than he’d intended. _I’ve been through this_ , he thought. _Another lesson is unnecessary._

“Cullen, your attitude is unwelcome.”

He resisted the urge to scowl or speak sharply, keeping his tone low and even. “I wasn’t aware I had one. I responded to prove I was listening.”

The admission should have been enough to placate Alexius, but he continued. “Do not presume to understand the Imperium and politics. As it stands, your little side trip may hurt us.”

 _My little side trip? Maeveris._ Frowning, Cullen fought the impulse to challenge Alexius. “Lady Maeveris was kind enough to deliver swords to me, I am grateful for her assistance.” 

Alexius ushered Cullen into an alcove, his eyes shifting from one end of the passage to the other. When he finally spoke, he whispered. “House Tilani attracts too much attention. There is a strong possibility the family will lose its position. It would be better to leave them to their fate.”

 _There’s a threat in there somewhere, but not from Alexius. He’s not clever enough to coordinate something of this nature._ Knowing Alexius would never trust him with the truth, Cullen would return to the Tilani estate as soon as he was able. That meant getting through the Archon’s audience, finding Dorian, and then moving through the city without attracting unwanted attention. _I’ll need more to go on, but I doubt any here would talk to me no matter how I asked._

Cullen considered Mae’s instruction on his behavior. He’d never really been any good at flirting, or considered he had much charm at all, but what if she was right? Playing the part might get the information he needed to help her.

The corridors on the upper floors appeared to be more recent and exuded an opulence and excess more in keeping with Cullen’s notions of nobility. Paintings hung on the walls, their subjects peering from their perches, each with a discerning gaze meant to convey a certain superiority. Iron lanterns hung from high above, and he found himself staring up while walking until Alexius corrected him again with a sharp rebuke.

“Your constant need to gawk at your surroundings does little for us. Do me the courtesy of at least pretending you’ve been here before.”

“I haven’t.”

Alexius started to reply when a diminutive elf approached and waited silently. Her brown hair had been pulled back tightly into a bun, and her clothes of white linen with gold cuffs suggested she was no ordinary attendant. _Slave_ , Cullen reminded himself with the hint of a frown. _None, other than the Tevinters in this city, are free._

Cullen nodded his head in her direction, prompting Alexius to turn. “What?!”

Her voice was louder than expected, given her unassuming presence. “The Lady Andrade expects the witcher to attend to her.” She lifted her eyes to meet Cullen’s. “You will follow me, master witcher. You will be sent for when it is time for your audience.” She led them both down another corridor, leaving Alexius in a large anteroom. “Magister, the lady has prepared this room for you, anything you require will be provided.”

When Alexius protested, a note was handed to him. He scoffed and huffed, yanking the folded parchment from her hands. What happened next was unexpected. Alexius paled. He took several steps backward, and then he turned away from them, seemingly staring out a large window in front of him. “Send the Lady Andrade my regards.”

The elf bowed. “Of course. By your leave, Magister?”

Alexius waved the elf away without facing her.

Cullen stood transfixed. What did the note say to earn such a reaction? Shifting his attention to the elf, Cullen furrowed a brow, unsure what he could say.

She smiled and gestured for him to follow. Cullen half-expected to be led directly to the Archon, wondering if Geven’s information was true. _This was unplanned_ , he surmised. _Whoever this Lady Andrade is, she must have a considerable pull._

The elf whispered as she walked next to Cullen. “My lady wished to meet you and has arranged for you to meet her nephew later. Say nothing and follow.”

l-l-l

Life had been good to Claudia Andrade, at least to hear her tell the story. Great aunt to the Archon Radonis, she’d been a permanent resident of the palace for some time. Cullen listened with a growing amusement as she spoke. Her dislike of Alexius took a handful of minutes to be laid plain before him. Surprisingly, Lady Claudia Andrade had strong opinions of everyone and didn’t censor herself to save face.

“I’m surprised Gereon managed to succeed at all,” she continued. “Although,” she paused and her eyes scrutinized Cullen from his feet to his head. “I’d suspect you were the reason and not his search for fame and glory.”

“I—”

She waved his response away before he could answer completely. “Doesn’t matter. What happened to the Pavus boy? I was under the impression Halward’s son was your tutor?”

Cullen fought back a grin. _Pavus boy? Dorian would be beside himself over that._ “He’s waiting below. Geven instructed him to remain behind.”

She coughed. “Did you say _Geven_?”

“Yes, my lady. He led me through the passageways beneath us.” 

Corpulent fingers gripped a cane Cullen suspected was more for show than for aid. Lady Andrade had lived many years in Antiva indulging in its pleasures, as she’d put it. She had an understated beauty to her features, but it was her presence that endeared her. She hobbled awkwardly toward a chair, and Cullen rushed to guide her. Helping her to sit, the lack of frailty and strength of her movements suggested it all an act.

“Did he give you anything?” The question fell out with a healthy dose of caution. “What did he tell you?”

 _It’s a test of a sort_ , he thought, but for what? Cullen faced her and answered with the same caution. “He suggested I mark well his name because he was well known for opening all sorts of doors.”

She nodded with her eyes closed. “An open door can illuminate even the darkest of places.”

 _Those were Geven’s exact words._ Cullen took a step back. _Could it be a passphrase?_ If he was wrong, and handed the note over to the wrong person, he risked his life as well as Geven’s. Such games were common during his training with the Templars. _It was always a way to know who could be trusted_ , Cullen recalled. _I have little choice here. To find out what happens, I must take a risk and hand over the paper. It’s the only way._

Cullen slid the folded slip from his pouch and handed it over. She accepted it; her gaze locked on him.

She unfolded the page, still staring at him. “We’re about to learn a great truth, Cullen. Care to wager on the contents?”

He shook his head. “No, my lady. Should I be worried?”

Claudia’s expression softened. “It is good to fear what you do not know.” She glanced at the parchment, and Cullen noted how she rested against the chair. “It appears you passed, witcher.” She turned the page toward him. Two words were written in large script.

_Trust him._

“And if I had failed?” There was never a time for Geven to compose a message. He likely carried the notes long before he’d met Cullen at the entrance.

The lady shrugged. “I’d have killed you. Claimed you attacked, it would have been a terrible, but necessary loss.”

Cullen didn’t question. Dorian had proven magic could harm him well enough, he’d made sure Cullen understood the need to develop his defensive signs as well as the others. “I see,” he said dryly.

She laughed through her reply. “No, dear boy, you don’t. You don’t see at all.” She gestured toward the chair opposite her. “Sit, please.”

Instead of complying, he leaned against the wall nearby. “With respect, I think I’ll stand.”

Another laugh, stronger than the first, hinted at the strength he’d been more certain of earlier. The cane was discarded, and the frail woman straightened her posture, leaned forward and grinned. It was the sort of grin one might expect when a great secret begged to be revealed, to prove who was the cleverer of the two. She twisted her hand toward the door and Cullen heard it latch, but he felt a surge of magic wrap around them. “Now, we can talk.” 


	9. Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Cullen waits to be presented to the Archon, he is left in the company of Claudia Andrade, a blood relation of the Imperial ruler. The longer he remains in her company, the more he understands that no one in Tevinter is who they appear to be.

Claudia Andrade had a way of speaking that all at once confused and delighted Cullen. As she talked, she teetered on the edge of secrets he guessed she longed to share but possessed enough sense to withhold. Her questions weren’t meant to create long involved conversations. With each new topic, Cullen tried to follow along, but by the time he thought he’d discovered her goal, she would change the subject and begin anew.

Gilded plates held fresh figs, plums and grapes of varied sizes arranged in near perfection. Clay bowls displayed olives and cheeses placed so symmetrically, Cullen wondered who might go to such lengths to present such a picture.

A woven basket sat covered in linen closest to his chair, and the warm scent of bread baked recently tempted him for a moment. _It’s meant to invite curiosity_ , he thought without a trace of hunger. His trek beneath the palace had curbed any need to eat for likely the remainder of the day. Dorian, too, had warned him of the favored use of poisons; giving Cullen a clear reminder to use his abilities and sniff out any potential harm before indulging.

“It’s all quite safe, I assure you,” she said, before plucking a round purple grape from its bunch and eating it. She leaned forward. “I have no use for a dead witcher.”

“Good to know,” Cullen replied without a hint of inflection. “While I may regret asking, I’m still unsure why I was brought here.”

Claudia twisted another grape free and grinned. “Call it, an information exchange. One with the potential for an association of sorts.”

“An association,” he repeated. Cullen was near to certain it wasn’t a proposition, not when he was still expected to meet the Archon. He chose his words carefully. “While I appreciate your assertions of not needing a dead witcher and the implication I might survive this encounter, why exactly am I here?”

She clapped her hands together, holding them in a tight clasp. “I like you Cullen. You remind of my second husband—no, definitely my third. He had the same intelligence and wit,” She corrected before sighing. “A bit too trusting, however. A sound piece of advice to remember is good wine shouldn’t smell like old socks. If it does? Don’t drink.”

Cullen coughed to hide his amusement. “Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”

A genuine smile spread across her face; her face wrinkled from the effort. “It wasn’t me. I actually liked him. Wonderful man. Exceptional cook. I wouldn’t have parted from him in such a manner.”

“Of course not,” Cullen said flatly. “Who would?”

He couldn’t quite comprehend the amusement in her expressions and demeanor _. Her husband is murdered and it’s perfectly acceptable. Another of Dorian’s assertions proven true. Tevinter is everything he’d claimed._

“What do you remember about Ferelden?”

A single brow rose in response. _What is she after?_ Playing along made the most sense; many of her questions seemed to test his mental acuity and response time. _Let’s see where this goes_ , he thought before replying just as coyly. “Everything. I’ve not forgotten a thing.”

“Are you sure?” There was a sly edge to her tone, as if she knew something he did not.

Cullen leaned back in his chair. “Of course. Ask me anything.”

“Who rules?”

He regarded her cautiously. A Templar would give a nod to the Chantry while still recognizing the monarchy. _But I am no longer a Templar_ , he considered, while compiling his response. “The Theirin family rules over Ferelden lands.”

She tented her fingers and tapped the tips together. “A diplomatic answer. And what of your Chantry?”

Frowning, Cullen leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “The Chantry is unconcerned with me.”

Her gaze darkened, eyes narrowing. “Oh, my dear witcher. When they learn of you, it will be of great concern.” She stood and gestured toward the door as she had when he first entered. The medallion against his skin thrummed, confirming she’d strengthened her magic barriers. “I can help. I _will_ help.”

Cullen didn’t need enhancements to feel the tension rise in the room. “At what cost?” He kept his tone low, even, and controlled.

“Nothing too great. Information, an odd job now and then.” Claudia remained standing; her eyes locked on him. “I am of two hearts, Cullen. I will never forsake my home, but I no longer share the same vision that my _nephew_ insists is the future of the Imperium.”

There was no mistaking the disdain in the mention of the new Archon. Regardless of their relation, Claudia held little respect for him. _Here it comes_ , Cullen concluded, wondering who held the other part of her. “And the part of you that stands in opposition?”

Sliding her cane from the table, Claudia’s posture and presence suggested a frailty Cullen knew to be a ruse. She hobbled slowly toward a window and leaned against the wall. “You have advantage, my friend. For the rest of us, deception is necessary. Unlike you, we must hide our strengths, even appear frail and addled.”

There was truth to her statement, but Cullen saw someone very different. Claudia’s name wielded power. Alexius’ reaction proved it. “I doubt anyone who has met you believes you weak.”

She tapped the side of her nose. “Within the Imperium I am considered unpredictable, flighty, and even a few grapes shy of a bunch,” she managed a half smile before continuing. “A carefully practiced performance to further disarm those around me.”

“To what end?”

A moment of disbelief crossed her face. “Cullen,” she said, sighing through his name. “I was led to believe you were insightful and aware. Don’t think. Tell me the first reason that comes to mind.”

Looking away from her, Cullen focused on the table. He shrugged. “If you were believed to be of addled mind, none would pay attention to any odd behaviors. Anything initially witnessed might be dismissed easily.”

She nodded. “I let a few spells loose intentionally now and then. Sure, it cost me a fair share of coin, but besides being great fun, it presented the proper image—a woman of increasing age slowly losing her faculties. I may have taken to muttering to myself whenever seen in public, and perhaps a few minor incidents here and there.” Claudia exhaled dramatically. “The point, my dear witcher, is no one dare challenge a poor, feeble minded and potentially dangerous old dame of the Imperium.”

Cullen bit back an incredulous smile. Clever, he thought. “But you never answered my question. If your allegiance to Tevinter has waned, to whom does it belong?”

Claudia’s attention turned away, and she looked out the window. “With the heart of many. When my second husband was taken from me, my attendant risked much to offer me solace. She revealed her true self to me in an emotional plea.” Her lip quivered; Cullen caught the motion just as she bit down on her lip. “She’s been with me ever since.” Claudia took her time before speaking again. “What do you know of the north? Have you learned anything of the qunari?”

“Only in name and of few deeds. They stand in opposition.”

She turned and barely managed a weak grin. “They are most curious about you. As are many in Thedas to be sure.”

He considered what she had shared. The elf that had led him was hardly his understanding of the qunari. “Your attendant? The one who led me here? Unless I am misinformed, the qunari are not elves.” 

Claudia nodded. “There is much you may not know, but that is not the point. My attendant. She is Tallis and a member of the Ben-Haasrath. I am her eyes. I listen when she cannot. We have a debt between us. One that is unreconcilable. She found the one who took my love—and made him disappear. For that? I have learned to look deeply and listen well.”

 _They are spies?_ Cullen shook the thought from his head. The implication of Imperial blood spying on their own for a sworn foe and his complicity in the conversation taking place. _She is right, there is much I do not know, but entangling myself in spies and opposition is a fool’s game._ He didn’t understand what the names meant or who any of them were. _Asking for more information implies interest._ Considering the state of those who had defied the Archon, he stood abruptly, chair dragging across the floor. “I can’t be a part of this. I don’t need more enemies, I need allies.”

She moved far quicker than he expected. “Wait. What if I prove my intentions are true?”

Could it be that simple? Cullen had seen firsthand through Dorian’s friendship what could be with a little faith. He crossed his arms, settling on his feet, in his usual manner of silent challenge. “I’m listening.”

Claudia cross the room and pulled a small box from an armoire. She placed it on the table, and fiddled with a silver chain around her neck, fishing a small key from within her clothing. “Here,” she said in a near whisper as she unlocked the box. A folded parchment slip was nearly shoved at him. “I know you met with Maeveris Tilani. I bear no ill will to the Tilani family, unlike my nephew.” She pulled on Cullen’s arm. “That is the order to execute Athanir Tilani and seize his assets. My nephew still searches for that, he’s not quite ready for such a bold move and thought to utilize his predecessor’s greed to further his own.”

The admission moved Cullen to action. He gripped the parchment, nearly tearing it in his haste. _It is as claimed._ His eyes scanned the handwritten order from the previous regime. The wax seal of the cloaked ferryman solidified its authenticity. “How did you—”

“It matters little how I obtained it, the point is, show this to Maeveris with my compliments. Will my goodwill buy a future favor or two?”

It was a simple enough exchange. Dorian had mentioned witchers earned coin through odd jobs and eradications. _Surely this qualifies. If I’m let free of the villa, I could easily manage._ Staring at the paper, he nodded. “At least one or two.” He lifted the paper slightly. “I thank you for this. I have so few friends; I would hate to lose even one.”

She straightened, holding out her hand. “With your permission, I would be most interested in having a witcher in my equally small circle of those I trust.” Without waiting for Cullen’s acknowledgement, she continued. “Now, let us discuss my nephew and how to get you through this meeting.”

l-l-l

By the time Cullen returned to Alexius, hours had passed along with nearly all the magister’s patience. “Well, what did she say?”

Cullen shrugged. “Nothing. The lady is rather touched, perhaps she was tired, but other than a few comments about the weather and the food, we didn’t speak.” he hoped the lie wouldn't be challenged.

“Figures,” Alexius muttered, pulling his overtunic on and quickly fastening the buttons. “It is a wonder we are still on the Archon’s schedule with all her delays. We’re to wait in another antechamber near the receiving hall.” He checked his reflection in a standing mirror. “Regrettably, the Archon’s daughter was called away to a circle in the Marches. Why such a thing was allowed is unfathomable,” Alexius continued. “I would never allow my son to be schooled by such inferior mages.”

The mild rants and complaints continued while they navigated the corridors, but Cullen didn’t speak. He focused on Claudia’s advice.

_“Don’t say a word,” she began. When he wrinkled his brow and started to ask why, she stopped him. “I’m serious. Grunt if you must, but do not let him think for a moment that you possess any intelligence. I do not doubt that both Gereon and Acasius have spouted on about your Fereldan sensibilities and conversational skills. So you will say nothing. Let my dear nephew ponder why once you have departed.”_

_“But—”_

_“Trust me. Unless you want to live out your life here in the palace, do not imply that you are anything more than a near mindless monster.” She patted his leg. “We all have our parts to play. This will be yours, to pave the way to your freedom.”_

The heady scent of incense and herbs filled his nostrils. _We must be close to the receiving hall._ The passages filled with those waiting for their allotted time. It didn’t take long for those gathered to notice him. Cullen heard the first gasp as he turned from a corridor into a large hallway. Whispers tickled his ears.

“Is that a. . .a real witcher? But how?”

“Look at those swords. They certainly seem real enough.”

“His hair is white!”

  
Following Alexius through the gathering crowd, Cullen heard one man speak at half voice. “Nothing but a freak. A monster.”

Cullen halted his steps and turned in the direction the voice had originated. He narrowed his eyes and stared down any who dared meet his eyes. At first, a man challenged Cullen’s discerning gaze.

Cullen, remembering all the advice he received, advanced in small moves, the hint of a growl gaining strength as he approached. It took less than a second for the man to raise his hands and back away.

“Forgive me, master witcher. It was not me who spoke!”

Alexius, calling him to hurry, broke the tension and Cullen scanned the crowd with a furrowed brow. He grunted once before moving on. The people he left suddenly raising their voices in a mix of fear and relief. 

_That was wholly unsatisfying_ , he thought, and quickened his steps. They passed under an archway and into what appeared to be an indoor courtyard. The scent Cullen had picked up on earlier was even thicker where he now stood. A large stone fountain bubbled in the center, surrounded by stone benches, and potted plants with large feathered fronds and brightly colored flowers in blue and orange.

“The room is ahead on the right,” Alexius directed. “If you remain silent, you may stand at the open door just ahead to view the proceedings. When the doors are closed, make sure you hurry along. It’s best not to keep the Archon waiting.”

Whatever Claudia has insinuated, Cullen doubted Alexius thought much of him at all. _He still talks to me as though I were a child who needed scolding. It’s not even worth the time to stand and gawk when what I want is to leave this place._

Following Alexius into the antechamber, Cullen refused any food or drink. A jolt from his medallion raised his awareness. _Something isn’t right in here_. “I should walk the room—for safety sake.”

Alexius’ eyes widened for a moment, but he agreed. “Yes, do that. Never can be too careful.”

It was more than that. The things he had heard and seen over the past few hours concerned him. _These people have no conscience. They’ll remove a rival without a second thought. This meeting seems to be public knowledge. There’s no telling what might occur._

The room itself was unremarkable. Four walls of stone construction likely carried basic protection magic by the dull hum of the lion’s head against him. The far wall held two large windows, overlooking the city; the view was even less interesting outside. On his left a large overstuffed chair was placed near a small end table. A less grand version of the same chair positioned opposite the larger of the two, and Alexius had situated himself there, resting with his eyes closed. It was the right side of the room that caught his attention.

There was a small alcove there; heavy red curtains hung on tarnished rods and a privacy screen had been left half open in front of the space. _A closet?_ Cullen took several steps forward and reached for the curtain. A small gasp stayed his hand. A whimper followed. A quick check on Alexius at the opposite end of the room assured Cullen his actions were not noticed.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “I won’t tell.”

He turned around and leaned with his right shoulder against the wall, thinking whoever hid within could hear him better. He waited and listened.

“Thank you. If they find me—” There was something melodic about her voice. It was familiar and somewhat new all at once. But the strange presence intrigued him. Hiding in a room that would soon play host to the Archon was a dangerous game. Anyone meant to be there, wouldn’t need to hide.

“I promise. You’re safe with me.” He meant every word, while unsure why he’d put so much conviction into a promise with someone he didn’t know. Cullen leaned closer to listen.

“I know,” she replied a little louder and then, as if she remembered the situation, quickly whispered an apology.

Cullen noticed the smile fighting to bloom on his face, and once more steadied his thoughts and checked on Alexius. _Still resting, hopefully._ “So, who are you?”

“A friend.”


	10. Indebted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen arrives at the Tilani estate armed with the foreknowledge of a planned attack. His actions cement his alliance with Maeveris Tilani. With her guidance, what follows is the start of his journey as a witcher for hire in the Imperium.

Dorian’s brow asked the question even before he spoke. “A friend? And did your mystery woman say anything useful, like her name?”

Cullen shook his head. “The Archon entered before I could ask.”

The clasp of Dorian’s hand on Cullen’s shoulder forced them to halt their steps. “But you wanted to, didn’t you?”

“It was a random encounter. Don’t make this into something tawdry.” Cullen shrugged free and walked on.

Laughing, Dorian followed through the city streets toward the Tilani estate. “I wasn’t aware I had, must be a hint of truth considering your denial.”

Without breaking his stride, Cullen scoffed and muttered his reply. “Hardly a denial.”

“Sounded like a denial to me. A woman hides herself in the Archon’s private salon and her sole task was to sneak a peek at you? Come now, do you really expect me to believe nothing more was said? At least do me the courtesy of sharing the truth.”

“I did. Nothing happened,” Cullen said.

“How terribly sad for you."

Dorian had a way of twisting everything said to imply things that weren’t there, and this time Cullen wasn’t playing along. “We have more important tasks, how much further is it?” He knew the answer and didn’t expect Dorian to humor him. Cullen had memorized the path—just in case they were separated. Dorian’s sense of self-preservation would have served if necessary, they’d gone over multiple possible outcomes.

Even though Cullen’s presence was requested, neither of them could be assured safe passage or know the mind of the Archon. This presented far too many variables to cover, necessitating different exit possibilities should Cullen’s visit sour.

 _We’ll reach the Tilani estate in twenty paces_ , Cullen thought, recalling there was one more turn to the left at the next intersection. He bristled; the surrounding air carried a charge of some sort. Magic. His medallion buzzed its warning at the same time. Cullen hummed aloud, an audible complaint of the sudden thrum of his lion's head against his skin. 

“What is it? The medallion?” Dorian’s questions fell in whispers, all signs of his earlier teasing dissipated into quieted concerns. “Can you find the source?”

Cullen answered with a nod. He was near to certain the cause of the warning lay nearby, but he was positive of the location. _Claudia warned me of the attack. She must have been wrong about the timing._ Turning to Dorian, Cullen said, “I've got to get to the estate. They’re after the magister. Wait at the inn, I’ll find you.” He broke into a sprint toward the rear entrance of the Tilani home.

Maeveris didn’t need help, she’d made that plain enough, but this was different. There’s no telling how many were sent. Cullen reached the kitchen door and wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked. He wondered if any of the Tilani house staff were complicit in the planned attack. “Doesn’t matter. Move.”

The reminder wasn’t entirely necessary, Cullen hadn’t slowed his steps—even when he drew his sword from its harness. He chose the silver edged blade as a precaution. If the runes glowed, it would change his approach. _I doubt even the Archon would risk setting a creature free in the city, even if he believed it controllable._ The blade thankfully remained dark. 

But the interior suggested otherwise, if the kitchen was any indication of what had occurred. A large oil amphora had cracked on the tiled floor, its contents spilled around its still dripping remains. Two large tables lay flipped over and shoved against the far wall. “What happened?” He waited and listened for sounds of any who might be trapped or injured but found no one. 

Above him, it was clear the fight had moved upstairs. Voices carried between loud crashes and waves of magic urging him to find a way free of the kitchen and join the fray. It took little effort to push aside an upended kitchen cart and move several barrels and debris blocking the door. He’d reached the door when he heard Dorian’s voice behind him.

“Well, I’ve never liked this kitchen setup, it made little sense being so close to the alleys. Looks like someone else took exception.”

Cullen bit back a sigh. “I thought I told you to wait.”

“Did you? I am near to certain you told me to meet you here.”

Arguing with Dorian would do little good and would waste time. “Fine. Stay behind me.”

“As lovely as the view may be, wouldn’t it be better if you let me help? After all, as an Imperial citizen, I must protect the Archon’s precious witcher.” Dorian grinned.

Cullen glanced over his shoulder, holding back his aggravation. “Just—try not to get killed. I doubt Alexius would appreciate it.”

“I believe that was the worst display of sentiment I’ve ever heard.” There was a level of feigned dejection in Dorian’s voice. Cullen knew better than to believe it. He held his index finger to his lips, but Dorian didn’t stop. “Did you actually try to hush me? Cullen, there’s enough racket upstairs to where we could recite the entire libretto of—”

Cullen turned around and spoke tersely, his harsh glare fixed on Dorian. “Do you hear that?” He pointed toward the ceiling. “That’s likely Maeveris or her father being attacked.” He squared his shoulders. “If you can’t be quiet, you can stay here.” 

There was a fleeting moment of regret, and Cullen pushed aside the apology already brewing in his thoughts. He took the stairs two at a time, faster than he should and with little care for himself. The sounds of fighting grew louder as he ascended, but the fight raged on at the doorway to Maeveris’ room.

He caught a few obscenities hurled by the combatants between blasts of fire and ice. At a quick glance, he counted four men trying to advance, amid a powerful burst of magic from within the room that held them back. Finding nothing to say that could pull their attention, he opted for brute force. Lifting a half-smashed sidebar table, Cullen hurled it at the men, knocking two into the corridor wall and sending a third scrambling away. The fourth stood in defiance.

“By who’s authority are you here?” His greased hair and haughty airs couldn’t hide the slight tremble to his lips as he spoke, straightening his tunic.

Cullen fixed his attention squarely on the man. He waited a moment and lifted his head without breaking his stare. “Mine.” 

Facing four mages might prove difficult, but with two slumped against the wall and the third cowering away from him, Cullen chose the simplest way to end the fight. The image of the Aard sign firmly in his mind, he drew the ancient rune with his right hand. The signs didn’t draw on the Fade to power them, the runes themselves an ancient magic that worked by will and the alchemical strength of a witcher’s blood.

Sign drawn; an invisible blast knocked the fourth man against the door frame, the back of his head hit wood. His eyeballs rolled upward and he crumbled into a heap at the entryway, leaving only one more for Cullen to remove. Mutterings to Cullen’s left caught his attention; the hiding man whispered prayers for safety instead of spells. “Get up,” he ordered, weaving as much menace as he could into his words.

Tentatively, a figure began to rise, hands raised in supplication. He stuttered and shook. “Please. . .I—”

Cullen narrowed his gaze and lifted his sword to the ready. The man shrieked and cowered. “Master witcher. . .I . . .I.” And then, he fainted.

Cullen, however, did not move until Dorian approached. “Well, that was rather anticlimactic. Although, I suppose Mae will be grateful you managed to spare the rugs from unsightly blood stains. So, well done, my friend.”

l-l-l

Dorian and Maeveris hadn’t stopped talking about what happened in detail even after Cullen had righted all the upended furnishings and helped repair the broken doors. The two had worked their way through several bottles of wine as Cullen tried to help the attendants and two elven carpenters.

“Mine,” Dorian mimicked Cullen’s earlier terseness followed by a rich laugh. “And I think that last poor soul pissed himself even before you took another step.” A sound clap on Cullen’s back met with resistance, but Dorian continued. “That was glorious.”

Maeveris thanked Cullen repeatedly. “I am indebted to you and the Lady Claudia. My father will remain in seclusion for now. I, on the other hand, will remain here.” She scanned the immediate area and frowned. “Although, I believe I will need to change residences for a short while.”

He nodded absently in response, not entirely engaged in the conversation. Claudia had warned him, but Cullen couldn’t shake the thought she still hadn’t been entirely truthful. _If it was the Archon who ordered the attack, what wrath will I face?_ His forehead wrinkled under the effort of thought, further distancing him from the others in the room. Cullen shook his head. It matters little. I’m not planning on spending my remaining days in the Imperium if I can help it.

A soft touch to his shoulder returned Cullen’s attention to the room. Maeveris tilted her head in such a way that she seemed to be inquiring about something even before she asked him. “You have the look of someone contemplating a greater mystery, little cub. What troubles you?”

“It’s nothing,” he replied with a forced hint of a smile.

“Is it?” Maeveris shifting on her feet to face Cullen. “You risked much by aiding me. But, rest easy my little cub. Nothing you have done here today will reach the Archon’s ears.”

Cullen stepped back, his skepticism unable to remain hidden on his face. He scoffed. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

Maeveris laughed heartily. “Oh, my dear witcher. You have much to learn. No one fails in the Imperium. Failure is death. You did these four a favor and in turn, their demise secures your status.”

His brow furrowed. “Four? Regrettably, I ended the lives of only three.”

Eyes devoid of emotion, Maeveris turn away. “All right, I might have helped the fourth find his release at the tip of a dagger. Possibly,” she said with a shrug.

“Possibly?”

She waved her hand, as if to dismiss the conversation. “Fine. Have it your way. Believe me, in their case, dead is far better.”

Cullen rubbed his face with both hands, before dropping them in exasperation. “I doubt I’ll ever understand the logic in Tevinter.” Dorian and Maeveris exchanged a glance, catching Cullen’s attention. “What?”

Using the precise dismissive wave as Maeveris had, Dorian turned away and spoke to Cullen over his shoulder. “I think you could benefit from staying in Minrathous for a month, maybe two.”

“Why.” It wasn’t a question. Cullen expected to be left to the Archon’s whims at some point, but couldn’t believe Dorian could do that, not after all of his promises. “So, you’ve decided to break our bargain.” Dorian’s assurances and shared goal to aid Cullen’s return to Ferelden had been the foundation for their friendship.

He was hurt. Cullen had trusted Dorian—trusted in their friendship. He shook his head and left the two standing there as he descended the stairs. _All I must do is travel south. I can do it without his help._ He ignored the calls for him to wait, even as he caught the sounds of both running after him.

“Cullen! Give me a moment to explain!”

His reply fell with coldness and curt words. “Don’t bother. I’m leaving.”

“For someone who whines about the loss of his humanity, you really are a shit. Give me a little credit. I, that is, we are trying to help you reach your goal.”

Cullen’s hand sliced through the air as he turned to face them. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not yours to pass on to another and so on.”

Unmoved, Dorian crossed his arms. “No one is passing you to anyone. How do you expect to depart the north without a single coin to your name? You have no horse, no money, no plans. Go if you feel you must, much luck will it do without the means to travel. Or shall you turn like so many others do in desperation to thievery and malfeasance?” There was anger in his tone, and Cullen read it as true.

“You know I would not,” Cullen said, his voice calmed.

A long sigh preceded Dorian’s response. “Nos sunt consanguinei, sed et fratres nos sumus.” The phrase was unknown to Cullen, his grasp of Tevene weak at best. “ _We are not blood relations, and yet we are brothers_. I am not trying to hurt you, Cullen. Stay here, work with Mae. Take jobs, make appearances. And most importantly, get paid.”

Maeveris joined the conversation. “I would like to hire you as well. Take note of those around who seem out of place. Talk more with Lady Claudia. Make more connections and help those who need it. Show the Archon you have the heart of the Imperium beating in your chest, and you will gather the coin you need.”

He nodded, not quite meeting either of his companions’ eyes. “Forgive me, I made an assumption.”

Dorian stalked toward Cullen grabbing his shoulders. “Andraste’s tits, do something about that proper behavior and start talking like a blasted witcher! It’s embarrassing with all your platitudes and apologies.” He turned and then wheeled around to face Cullen again. “And learn to swear without cringing while you’re at it.”

“Where will you be while I’m here?”

Dorian’s earlier bravado diminished. “I’ve been summoned home to Ventus. Apparently, Halward wishes to share his thoughts on my work. I’ll return as soon as I can. Try not to miss me,” he said with a wink.

l-l-l

“No. This is ridiculous.” Cullen crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I’m not chasing after a child’s nightmare. The woods have no voice of their own. Surely the merchant was mistaken.”

For weeks he’d taken every job that came his way. Cullen had done so much work in Minrathous, the Archon had ordered him to visit other settlements in the Imperium under his goodwill; the presence of the Archon’s Imperial witcher was meant to show the benevolence and care of the Archon’s seat. Dorian’s family owned the property where they rested a modest sized home in Asariel, south of Minrathous.

Maeveris pushed the parchment toward the edge of the table. “Cullen. Please don’t argue. I’m surprised you’re able to dismiss this so readily. I believe you’re missing an opportunity.” Maeveris pursed her lips and excused herself; Cullen caught the stomp of her heeled shoes as she climbed the stairs.

“I’m not missing anything,” he grumbled aloud. “The woods the west of Asariel are hardly dense. The child was dreaming.” It was the only logical conclusion. The merchant thought he heard a conversation between two others, one being his young son of eight years and a voice he did not recognize as they traveled. The child had insisted a tree had chatted with him.

Cullen remembered seeing the so-called wooded area when Maeveris’ coach carried them toward the city. It was a stretch of trees one could traverse in under an hour on foot. Nothing would seek it as suitable for hiding, he was certain. But the longer he thought on the impossibility, the more he wondered if Maeveris was right. Trees don’t converse, he considered, until a spark of recollection filled his head. “Unless. . .”

Tales of walking trees that lured unsuspecting people from their beds with gentle conversation had long been a cautionary tale told to Fereldan children. “The Witchwood,” he said, the name of the story falling in recognition. It centered on a young boy sent to gather wood under strict warnings not to cross beyond the edge of the forest. He ignored his father’s words and ventured beyond the boundaries of safety, never to be seen again. “It couldn’t be same, and yet there it is.”

Approaching footsteps alerted Cullen to Maeveris’ return, excitement at the possibility of facing a real creature, instead of missing pets, lost jewelry and playing guard dog set a shiver of near excitement through him. When she entered the room carrying several books, he blurted out his suspicions.

“It’s a sylvan, isn’t it?” It took effort to conceal his excitement. _Finally, a real challenge._

“It could be. And this would be your first encounter with such a creature? Are you ready to meet what could be a demon?”

Cullen scoffed. “Absolutely. I just need to discover its weakness, and then eradicate it.”

“Sounds easy enough. And these might be helpful,” she said, handing him two bound tomes. “I knew Dorian likely had several copies of these books. He’d given me multiple copies of the very same. “The first is a crude but useful field guide, addressing the dangers all travelers must be aware of when traversing our lands. The second? It’s likely to draw your disbelief, but the _Tales of a Mad Hermit_ contains many useful facts of what one might find in the dark.”

Picking up the second book, he noted the frayed edges of the linen cover and small slips of parchment with scribbled writing. One slip had page numbers, notes and questions written in tiny printed letters. The book itself had overly large print and pictures every few pages. He paused and read a few passages.

_“. . .the Mad Hermit had lost his supper to the glowing slime, and as fond as he was of meat pies and roasted roots, the slimy remnants smelled so bad, he used a clothes pin atop his nose to block the stench. . .”_

Cullen nearly rolled his eyes as he read on. “It’s a child’s book. How is this going to help?”

Maeveris held out her hand and Cullen handed her the book. “It may well be, but the details are remarkably true,” she said leafing through the pages. “Ah, here it is.” She glanced at him once before reciting.

_“. . .And I, being quite mad, did what any sane person would not dare. I burned the talking tree, from roots to leafy tips to silence its chattering. . .”_

Cullen shrugged. “Wood burns, that’s no great revelation.”

“Fire. The way to beat a sylvan and draw out its demon is through fire. Really, it’s not that difficult to comprehend.” She stopped. “Although, no one has seen anything of the sort in years. At least not in the north. It could be a dim-witted bandit or even a spell gone wrong. Most children from Ventus to the Anders have heard of warnings not to play with magic lest they turn a playmate into a household pet.”

Maeveris continued with a story from her childhood, something about a bored demon and a common house rat, but Cullen only half listened. He could use his signs to draw the demon out, but then what? He interrupted her story with several apologies. “I have a few questions. If this is a sylvan, and not a dim-witted bandit or the like, once I’ve destroyed the vessel, what do I do with the demon?”

She seemed to consider his question, her brows lifted, and she began to answer only to shake the thought away. “Well, that depends on what you plan to do with it. If you want to trap a demon and keep it for later use, you’ll need an enchanted object to hold the demon within. Or, you can play hero and dispatch the foul creature.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “The former could be great fun to torment an enemy, but the latter is likely worth more coin and a few bard’s tales to your accomplishments.” She looked around the receiving room. “I think the latter is best. I doubt Dorian’s parents would appreciate a demon brought into their home. Dorian will likely be put out he didn’t get to weigh in on the decision, but considering Halward’s support of my father, let us avoid any messy entanglements.”

“Agreed. But my question remains unanswered. How do I dispatch a demon? Will my sword be enough?”

She stared at him, eyes blinking several times. “Well,” she said, sighing through her words. “You’re about to find out.”


	11. Hoodwinked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witcher Cullen meets his first demon. The contract doesn't quite proceed as planned, necessitating Maeveris' involvement.

Cullen didn’t need his medallion to point out the strangeness of the wood. To his back, the dry air and road dust swirled in sun-warmed breezes. But where he stood at the edge of the cluster of trees, the wind breathed cool mist against his face.

“That’s odd,” he said, although Cullen was well aware of the magic barrier in front of him.

“You’re welcome to enter my home,” said a honeyed voice.

The hairs on Cullen’s neck bristled. _Whatever waits within is powerful. Caution is warranted._

He carried a few potions, but without knowing his foe, taking too many would slowly poison his blood and body. Given the uncertainty, Cullen decided it better to refrain and try to learn more. “I believe I’m fine here, thank you just the same.”

“Join me, please. I have little but can offer you tea.”

Tea? Cullen shook his head. “I’m not in the habit of accepting dining invitations from strangers in magical woods.”

A soft laugh answered him. “Dinner? No, it’s a bit early for that. Just tea. Please, be my guest.” Even though the words carried a quiet politeness, Cullen’s instincts kept him still, unwilling to breach the wood’s edge.

He couldn’t discern much from the voice itself. Ethereal, genderless and without a hint of malice in the casual tone bucked against all he had been taught by the Chantry. The notion that creatures and demons are wild, lack sophistication, and act on pure instinct didn’t hold here. Cullen considered his options _. I could accept and learn more before I strike_ , he thought, weighing the choices before him. _Bursting into a magical wood without knowing what I might face is foolish, but then again, do I really have time to play its game?_

“Well?” The voice turned a little impatient. “Are you _witchers_ always so _rude_?”

 _There it is_ , Cullen concluded. _It knows what I am. Now what?_ He refused to apologize but answered calmly. “When faced with uncertainty, a witcher is cautious, never rude. Since you know what I am,” he said to the trees, “why not tell me who you are?” Who, not what. Cullen had little doubt whatever resided within wasn’t flesh and bone. “I’ll accept your invitation, under one condition.”

“But of course.”

The leaves on the trees shook, and the mist dissipated. Cullen noted his condition was not requested or addressed. He pressed for an agreement. “I’m afraid I cannot enter until terms are discussed, and we are in agreement.”

An audible sigh was followed by a chill gust of wind. “Fine. Name your terms.”

Caution dictated Cullen guarantee his survival, but he’d never dealt with the situation before. The Order had taught them vigilance and action in the event of encountering a demon. In speaking with Maeveris, they’d assumed the creature to be a sylvan, but if they were wrong, Cullen would be woefully underprepared.

 _Be certain what you demand cannot be twisted or altered_ , Cullen thought. Even Dorian had warned him against making deals without careful consideration.

 _Heads I win, tails you lose._ Dorian had tricked him only once. _I trusted him and didn’t even consider what he’d actually said; the ruse was plain as day and I still missed it._ Cullen lost the coin toss that day, but the lesson had remained. The game is played best when one has an advantage over one’s opponent.

 _Not so here_ , he considered. _On one hand, I might possess superior strength. On the other hand, I have never faced a demon, sylvan, or any creature of great magical power. Prudence demands a simple request._

He stood straighter, rolled his shoulders once, and spoke. “My condition is simple; and the completion of our business, I am able to walk free of the encounter exactly as I am now and I offer the same protection to you.”

The silence suggested his host had no intention of accepting; seconds carried into minutes without a reply until a quieted answer rustled through the trees.

“As you wish. No harm will come to you.”

Cullen wasn’t certain, but he thought he heard disappointment in the delivery. He felt a shiver climb up his spine as he stepped between two trees and into the misty wood. Dorian and Maeveris had thrown all sorts of magic at Cullen since his transformation. Maeveris derived far too much enjoyment from tossing increasingly dangerous magic at Cullen. She’d claimed it was to sharpen his deflection and dispelling skills, but Cullen guessed it much the same as Dorian’s near perverse joy of flinging fireballs at him without more than a single word’s warning.

What their games gave Cullen was a familiarity that ignited his curiosity and witcher senses the moment he crossed into the impossible woods.

“There are no odors,” he muttered, then chose to continue his assessment silently. _There should be scents of dirt, leaves, even decay from the forest floor._ He inhaled deeply. _There’s nothing._ Glancing around, Cullen reached for a leaf on a low-hanging branch. Whatever it was, the wood wasn’t alive.

 _How do I negotiate? If there is no life here, and I’ve secured my blood, what do I have to offer?_ All Cullen had for certain was an overabundance of caution and a puzzle needing a solution.

The leaf wasn’t smooth or cool, despite its rich green color. To his touch it felt withered or dry, but when Cullen tried to pluck it from its branch the leaf held on, almost fighting against Cullen’s grip. _What is this place?_

Even the expected sounds were off. His boots didn’t crunch the wood scraps and debris beneath his feet. Cullen kicked at the dirt but heard nothing. The rustle from earlier had ceased. In fact, all the natural sounds that had suggested a magic borne wood were gone.

Cullen held back a sigh. _Something tells me if I make it out of here alive, I’ll receive one very long, very direct lecture about being far too trusting._ Straightening his posture, Cullen planned to, at the very least, appear to be in control. Until now, his tasks had been simple eradications, nothing too taxing or too dangerous.

Several yards ahead of him, a clearing presented a round wooden table with a standard tea service for two laid out. Both chairs were empty, and he saw no sign of his host.

As he approached, Cullen’s right brow lifted _. It’s too perfect._ Fruit of varied colors sat piled high in a silver bowl. Something one would see in a painting or artist’s drawing. Every piece vibrant, unblemished, and whole. Small silver plates shone brightly, but no sunlight reflected off the metal. No matter what he saw, Cullen couldn’t allow his host to read any uncertainty in his presence. Taking a deep breath, he spoke in a loud voice.

“Impressive spread, but where is the host to greet me? It is rather rude to invite someone for tea and then simply not bother to appear.” He tried to emulate Dorian as best he could, but Cullen had to admit the art of contrived annoyance with a dash of haughtiness didn’t sound natural at all. _Dorian has more biting wit, but this will have to do._

All around him, a voice replied in a half whisper, half sigh. “Quite right, witcher. Forgive me.” From Cullen’s left a figured approached, cloaked. The face of his host hidden in darkness beneath the folds of its garment’s heavy hood. “Please help yourself.”

Another lingering glance at the offerings left no desire to partake. Cullen hadn’t inspected the tea or the food beyond a visual assessment. He couldn’t be sure anything he saw was real or safe. “As tempting as the offer is, thank you, but I—”

The hooded figure managed a nod. “Everything before you is quite real, I remember what hunger feels like. I would not trick you, poison you or bewitch you with sustenance. Please.”

A robust bunch of round grapes draped across the edge of the bowl. Cullen reached for one and with only the slightest hesitation, popped the purple fruit into his mouth. Juicy and sweet, Cullen’s eyes widened. _Strange how the food is the only thing real about this whole place._ He chewed and swallowed. Curiosity drove his questions.

“How?”

“The food?” A slight movement of the cloak suggested a shrug. “Gifts, mostly. I’ve been trying to invite any number of guests, but most simply arrive and then change their minds, often leaving gifts as some kind of apology.”

“Then,” Cullen paused, “am I the first to accept?”

A weak nod answered.

Cullen shifted as he sat down. “You know why I am here?” For a moment, Cullen readied for an attack. He knew how far back he would have to reach for his sword. He balanced; his muscles tightened, preparing to move with all speed. The merchant’s child had been clear of the otherworldly invitation. Whatever had spoken with the young boy had come from an impossible wood—this wood. The contract asked Cullen to remove the threat within and guarantee the safety of travelers.

“I wouldn’t have harmed the child. I need . . . what I wish for. . .it’s difficult to explain. And while a witcher would be an interesting change for me, your kind is not known for its acceptance _or_ forgiveness. I have promised your safe return. What happens next is left to you, witcher.”

Cullen sat back against the chair and crossed his arms. “You admit to talking with the child. Why?” He expected any number of fabricated lies and half-truths. _I never should have offered terms._

“Lying to your executioner won’t sway his heart. Will you at least listen to my story and then decide? I’ve guaranteed your safety and you have agreed in kind. Will you grant me the courtesy of a willing ear?”

A simple request. Not a plea, not an exchange, just be an audience. Cullen agreed. “I’ll listen.”

Cullen’s host moved swiftly, settling in the chair across from him. “I was human once, although I cannot remember what being human should feel like. I remember my life before, and I remember how I came to be as I am now.” And with that, he began his tale.

_I was born to greatness. Born on the fifth day of the fifth month in the dawn of the fifth age to one of the most influential bloodlines of the Imperium, my name was known within minutes of my birth—Quintus Valerius. I was the fifth child, yes, but none of my siblings had survived their infancy._

_It was a blessing and a curse. I never wanted, never went hungry, never thirsted and never learned of disappointment or rejection. My father saw fit to buy whatever I required, and what his influence or coin could not buy, he secured by magic or mayhem, whatever was required._

In the clearing, Cullen shifted on his chair. “The fifth age? You can’t expect me to believe that you are,” he paused, calculating the years, “over _four hundred_ years old.” Cullen waited for the answer to his disbelief. His experience with creatures existed in the pages of books and written on parchments. To believe this required more proof.

“Yes, and if you insist on interrupting me, I’ll age even faster, so hush and listen,” said the hooded figure.

Cullen muttered his apology and promised to remain quiet.

_My childhood passed with every whim answered, every tantrum dismissed, and every failure blamed on others. In my head, I was perfect. The most handsome, the most gifted and the most deserving. My magical aptitude was good enough, but to hear my tutors and admirers speak? I had no equal._

_The truth is, my life had been nothing more than gilded lies. Perhaps a part of me understood the truth, but I had clothed myself in false praise from my very first breath until I passed my twentieth year._

_Several months after I turned twenty, the city was gripped by strange disappearances. There seemed to be no logical selection process, among the missing were two children of rather prominent families as well as a handful of slaves and street dwellers. And if you can believe it, I was rather put out I’d not been among those sought out for abduction._

_I didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, and in hindsight, I should have been more clever and aware. My father had traveled south on a business dealing and wasn’t expected for weeks. When I received a message written in his hand, my curiosity overshadowed my common sense. I was to meet him at the Black Crow._

_The Inn in question was in a terribly filthy corner of the city, known for blind alleys and questionable affairs. The note stated my father required my assistance in a particular sale and believed my presence would be most advantageous._

_Had I truly considered the circumstances—the note, the fact my father would not deign to enter such an establishment, and the likelihood the whole thing was a ruse—perhaps my life would have been different. But the role of the fool had been cast, and I had been chosen._

_I remember entering the Crow; the scent of stale ale and even staler wretch threatened to upend my stomach with the very first inhale. Despite the torches on the wall and candles on the sparse tables, everything seemed covered in soot or maybe even a grimy layer of filth._

_It took one breath more to realize my father wasn’t there. No one was. All six tables were empty. No one stood taking orders or pretending to clean the empty counter. I was alone. Or so I thought._

_I heard her voice before I could see the other in the room._

_“Hello,” she said. Only it wasn’t simply the spoken word, it was. . . it was melodic, an exaltation of greeting that rang sweet to my ears. I stood dumbstruck, and she spoke again. “I’ve been waiting for you.”_

_I tried to answer her with all the charm I could muster but found I could not move. I gave my body directions; willing it to speak, step forward or even raise a hand in greeting, but no matter how I tried, nothing happened. Despite the rising panic, I found I could at least breathe, which offered some consolation._

_“It’s a compulsion, I’m afraid,” the woman said. “You’re here as my reward. Your father wanted successes and I,” she laughed, “I needed a new home. That’s you.”_

_I listened as all was explained. A deal gone sour, a promise made in blood and now was the time to collect. My father had made a deal with a demon—my life in exchange for his prosperity. For every rival the demon removed in my father’s path, another year was promised to the demon, and it had grown tired of waiting._

_“So you see,” the demon said. “You’re going to disappear, like all the others. Unlike them? You’re going to live—more or less.”_

_More or less, she’d said. I lived, if what I am doing now can be considered living. The demon needed a new body, one that could continue its existence. I became a part of it._

Cullen exhaled. “A hunger demon.” 

“How did you guess—never mind. Yes, quite right. And now my time is short, and I must find another to carry the burden before I am not strong enough.” 

Beneath its heavy cloak, Cullen wondered what the demon looked like, if it was an ancient as it claimed. “Why the child? Why not just find another as you were found?”

It laughed. “I can hardly go to market and shop for a proper vessel. This wood is all I have strength to maintain.”

It made sense, but Cullen was certain he couldn’t allow the demon to take the child. “I could end it for you. Swift and without malice, I would free you.” The offer sounded ridiculous as he spoke it, but Cullen had already promised not to attack in so many words. He could dispatch the demon if it asked to be freed.

“Free me? Is that some sort of odd witcher logic? I’ll not harm you, but I can kill you if you ask me politely?”

Cullen shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to ask, right?”

The demon hummed. “I don’t think I’ll be entertaining that option, thank you.”

The impasse was clear. Cullen had promised safety in return for his own. Regrettably, the demon would take a host, but Cullen could at least appeal to the merchant to move along and not return to this road. _Of course, I could just kill it now._

The demon growled, as if he heard Cullen’s thoughts. The wood grew colder, dark clouds gathered above, and a frigid wind cut through the clearing. “You swore, as did I.”

“I did,” replied Cullen. “But I cannot allow you to take a child’s life. Yet, you’ve been polite and not attacked. You’ve kept your word.”

The clouds above dissipated, and sunlight touched the clearing once again. “So I have. Now what? Shall we say good afternoon and part ways?” The cloaked figure leaned back against the chair. “You could find me a new host. Someone who wouldn’t be missed? Perhaps a criminal needing to be taught a lesson?”

 _A life is still a life and not mine to choose or give._ The idea of making a choice much like the one that decided Cullen’s fate drew a frown. his forehead creased at the brow. “No. I’ll not aid your cause.”

With a sigh, the figure rose. “Then we’ve nothing more to say, witcher. See yourself out, would you?”

l-l-l

Maeveris stared at Cullen, mouth agape. She shook her head. “You just left it there?” She gripped his arm. “You don’t make deals with demons, you take your sword and run them through. I thought that was understood.” She’d spent the better part of an hour questioning Cullen.

“It kept its word and didn’t attack. It would be in bad form to be rude in return.” 

She scoffed. “Bad form? It would be in bad _form_ to oust a demon from a magical wood meant to trap unsuspecting passersby? Cullen. Think about what you’re saying.”

“I plan to return; I just couldn’t go back on my word at that moment.” He rolled his right shoulder. “It’s a hunger demon. I don’t know how to defeat a hunger demon.”

“Respectfully? See the pointed stick you carry on your back? You use that. A few strong slashes and possibly a stab or two and then no more demon. There. Easy.”

He fought the urge to glare. “Somehow I don’t believe vanquishing a demon is all that simple.”

She shifted, turning from him with a heavy sigh on her lips. “I guess we could send a message to Acacius. Maybe he—”

“No.” It was a bluff, but he didn’t want to hear it. Cullen knew Maeveris wouldn’t deign to contact Acasius. She needed Cullen to succeed, and he wouldn’t admit to needing the old witcher’s help. “I’ll go, but I’m doing it my way.”

“Which is what exactly?” Maeveris crossed her arms, tapping her foot.

“I don’t know, I’ll improvise,” Cullen replied.

Maeveris grabbed her cloak and settled a large bag on her shoulder. “Yes, and that’s exactly why I’m coming along this time.” She patted the bag and tossed Cullen a wink.


	12. Mistaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen sets out to defeat the hunger demon with Maeveris and learns a harsh lesson. In thanks for her help he agrees to travel north to run an errand. He knows nothing of Seheron. A Rivani crew is only too willing to allow Cullen passage, and offer him stern warnings. Shrouded in fog and plagued by spies, factions and wars, Seheron may be a greater challenge than he's faced thus far.

It had been an hour since Maeveris cited she had just the thing, delaying their departure. Cullen had heard the movement of furniture and a mix of exasperation and curses as objects both heavy and light fell against the floor and walls.

Cullen leaned his forehead against the wall. “A few minutes, she’d said.” He sighed and turned, letting his back smack against the wall in the foyer. Cullen cleared his throat and called to Maeveris. “If it’s all right, I’ll go alone. I’ll be back later!”

“Oh no, you are not leaving without me, little cub!” Her voice carried from somewhere up the stairs. “I know it’s here, just one—more—minute!” They had made it out the door when a sudden revelation pulled them inside. Cullen’s patience dwindled the longer she took.

He checked his swords and the push dagger in his boot; the short half blade and small wood hilt slipped in its strop easily. “I don’t think I’m forgetting anything.” He glanced at the stairs leading to the second floor and shook his head. “That’s it,” he muttered, “I’m going.”

A small flask belt draped over one chair was stocked full, he’d save the potions if the fight went south. Careful to limit the noise of glass vials clinking together, he lifted the belt slowly. It was easy enough to fit it around his thigh. It held eight small ampoules. Just enough to get him through a single fight. _At least the delay gave me a chance to better prepare_ , he thought, securing the belt around his leg.

With a final check of his equipment, Cullen stepped toward the front door just as Maeveris trudged down the stairs. She grumbled upon reaching the bottom. “Really? Were you attempting to sneak out? Cullen, I’m shocked.” The sarcasm and snark Maeveris often used wasn’t spared. “Yes, by all means, leave. You did so well on your own the last time, please go right ahead.”

Cullen pressed his lips tight. He swallowed the retort. A strangled growl carried him outside. Maeveris had hit a nerve. He had failed his first real contract. He’d let the hunger demon live and left with his own life. That wasn’t what he’d agreed to do. His sense of self-preservation would put Maeveris in harm’s way. _This is on you, and you’re being rude._ Cullen held the reins of her mount as she climbed into the saddle. “I apologize. I’m disappointed with myself and taking it out on you.”

She smiled, even chuckled before patting his hand. “We really have to break you of these manners, little cub. You’re a witcher. You make your own rules. Never mind the apology. We have a hunger demon to capture.”

Settling in the saddle, he turned his horse around. “Wait a minute. What do you mean _capture_?”

Maeveris urged her mount onward. “Let me worry about the capture. You must weaken it and keep the demon distracted.”

Cullen’s displeasure fell out in an exasperated sigh. “No. Out of the question. What happened to running the demon through with my sword?” Maeveris pressed her boot against her horse and it sped away from him.

He followed, his mount picking up speed to match his companion until Cullen’s horse overtook the other and he stalled its advance. “We’re not moving until you explain.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I have a Neromenian seal. It’s meant to trap demons or spirits. You need a mage to activate the disc itself, and as long as the intended target is weak enough, you’ll be able to capture it.”

“I see.” His stoic response and deepening glare earned him a feigned laugh.

“You worry too much, little cub. Just be the witcher I know you are and leave the rest to me.” When Cullen’s expression didn’t change and his grip on her horse’s reins remained tight, she added, “if you defeat the demon then I’ll say well done, but if you don’t?” She raised a single brow. “Then allow me the opportunity to catch the nasty creature.”

“Why?”

She scoffed. “Why? You should ask me why not? The opportunity to catch a demon and put it to use at a later time is something every mage should master.”

Cullen didn’t budge. “Again, why?”

This time she met his stare with one of her own. “Never you mind. We have a demon to defeat.”

“Right. Don’t get in my way. I will finish it this time, and don’t need complications,” he said, releasing the reins.

Her laugh was genuine. “Spoken like a true witcher.”

They rode on for a brief time, before Maeveris called his attention. “Care to make a little wager?”

“No,” said Cullen. He’d had enough of wagers with Dorian to know better.

“Don’t be harsh. It’s just a tiny little wager. You don’t even have to put up any coin. What’s the harm?”

Cullen understood it was better to give in, rather than try to talk Maeveris out of whatever game she wished to play. “Fine. What’s the wager?”

“If you cannot defeat the demon without my help, then you will remain in Minrathous in my employ, or rather, I’ll provide a roof and whatever you need while you build your reputation and mine through association.”

He hummed in response. The truth of the matter was, Cullen had no intention of settling in Minrathous or anywhere in Tevinter. To truly succeed as a witcher, he needed the freedom to travel. Acasius had spoken of the Path, the route of the Imperial Highway from the north to the south that witchers had once traveled, seeking contracts and works throughout Thedas.

And yet, he understood the value of forging alliances, setting up a network of associates that would, in the long run, benefit all concerned. “How about I remain in Minrathous through the end of the year, and then move on, no wager necessary,” he offered. _Plus, this way I don’t have to worry about missteps or Mae getting in my way just to win the bet._

“You don’t want my help, is that it?”

Cullen had to tread carefully. Without Maeveris’ support, he could end up holding up a wall in the Archon’s palace. “No, that’s not it. I’m not too sure about the whole _capture the demon_ plan and would prefer that we not try.”

“I see,” she said, and Cullen caught the twinge of disappointment in her voice.

“A compromise? This demon we vanquish and the next one we encounter, I’ll help you capture,” he offered. “I won’t even pry to determine what you plan to do with it.”

Maeveris hummed. “I’m going to hold you to that, little cub. Fair warning. I have a very, very long memory for such promises.”

l-l-l

Cullen balanced on his feet; silver sword gripped with both hands. They were too late. The demon had taken a new host and fought them, matching blow for blow. Maeveris was tiring, and Cullen stood between her and the demon, shielding them both. It had taken nearly two hours, but the demon was finally beginning to tire.

Maeveris pleaded with him. “Cullen, you’ve got to end this. I don’t think I can continue for much longer.”

“I can’t kill a child!” No matter what rested inside, all Cullen saw with his eyes was the merchant’s young son, barely taller than Cullen’s waist, covered in blood and dirt. Terrified brown eyes searched Cullen’s face while a thin, weakened hand reached for Cullen’s aid.

This wasn’t who Cullen wanted to be. Even knowing the demon that had possessed the child had killed innocents to survive, he hesitated.

“It’s a shell!” Maeveris yelled between ice blasts. “The child is dead, there is nothing you can do!”

In an instant, the expression of the helpless child hardened. Eyes narrowed and teeth bared, the demon leaped to his feet and charged. Cullen quickly drew the Aard sign, and the demon fell back, its hand raised to its head.

“Now Cullen! Slow its movements!”

He nodded, the Yrden sign already begun. Ancient Tevene runes glowed in a circle around them both, Cullen unaffected by the magic. The demon’s movements grew sluggish, its eyes widened in fear.

Cullen reached out with one hand. “Give me the seal!” _It's the only way to end this,_ he thought.

“But you said—”

"Forget what I said! Give it to me!" He stretched his arm, more emphatically. “Now!”

Maeveris moved closer, uttering a few unintelligible words, and seated the clay seal in his hand. “Place it nearby and then get clear,” she said.

The demon howled as Cullen placed the round disc near its feet. It struggled to rise, but Cullen reinforced the rune circle and backed away. “Do it,” he said.

Intoning a phrase Cullen couldn’t comprehend, Maeveris awakened the seal. The demon’s cries grew as a bright light enveloped it. As soon as the light dissipated, the misty wood shimmered and vanished, leaving them standing once again in the dry lands, both exhausted. Cullen collapsed in the dirt.

“This was my fault. Had I just—”

Maeveris held out her hand, and a strong grip helped Cullen to stand again. “Yes. This was because you thought to deal with a demon. You’re a witcher. Not every life can be saved, but this? This was an unnecessary death. Surely, you can see the truth of it.”

He shook his head, jaw set. “Yes, fine. I know.” Cullen tried to turn away but Maeveris stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“No, Cullen,” she said. “You don’t get to dismiss this. A child died.” She met his stare. “Because of you.”

The two locked eyes, neither speaking, until Cullen relented. He exhaled slowly, before answering. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Her expression softened. “I don’t doubt you.“ Maeveris led Cullen toward the horses. “This was a harsh, but necessary lesson. Who you become will change based on what you do with the knowledge gained today. You’re not like the witchers I knew as a child. Remember what happened here and make a difference.”

 _Little consolation for the family of that child,_ he thought. “I’ll stay for now.”

“Just like that, with no conditions at all?”

Cullen rolled his shoulders. “No conditions—for now.”

“Good,” she said. “Time for a little trip north.”

“Back to Minrathous?”

With a shake of her head, Maeveris turned away. “A little further. Although, I’d prefer if you kept this to yourself.”

He could read the unspoken in her request. “So, you’re sending me someplace I shouldn’t be and don’t tell Dorian?”

Maeveris turned to face him, a false smile on her lips. “Something like that.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Cullen crossed his arms, and kept his eyes fixed on her.

“Probably not,” she replied. “It’s a simple errand, with a few _minor_ inconveniences.”

l-l-l

Cullen realized far too late what his blind agreement had bought him. Hidden in the hold of a trading ship, he would be offloaded with cargo as soon as it reached Seheron. The crate was large, but he was no less cramped than if he’d been stuffed into a vat of spirits.

 _You didn’t learn a thing_ , he chastised himself, trying to stretch and twist but finding it too difficult to move. “Minor inconveniences? This is ridiculous,” he grumbled. The sound of heavy footfalls silenced his complaints. Cullen wasn’t sure how much the crew knew, or with whom Maeveris had contracted his passage, he’d been on board for a short while and wondered if he’d have to swim for it, if discovered.

Several loud raps on the crate, forced Cullen to keep still, any movement on his part might cause the wood to groan, revealing his hiding spot.

A gruff voice soon followed. “You can come out now, witcher,” the voice said, and by the inflection it was painfully clear silence wouldn’t help him at all. Using the heel of his hand, Cullen pounded on the crate, dislodging the few nails used to temporarily seal him inside.

The top was lifted, and a man peered down at Cullen. He had no choice, without sufficient room, his swords rested at his back.

"Relax, witcher. Name’s Dagan.” The man stepped back, allowing Cullen to climb from the crate. “We’re clear of the Archon’s eyes, for now.”

Cullen couldn’t place the man’s accent, but guessed he was likely one of the raiders that roamed the waters. Dagan pointed toward a nearby crate. “There’s a light cloak, and a half mask for your use. Make sure you keep the hood low. If you’re spotted by the Vints on the island or the spies of the Qunari, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Spies?”

Dagan nodded and hummed. “Yeah. Ben-Hassrath. They’d love to get a hold of you, believe me.”

 _Wonderful_ , Cullen thought, he doubted the association with Claudia Andrade would do much good if he were captured. “Are you my contact?”

“No. Where you’re going? I wouldn’t send my worst enemy.”

Cullen frowned. “And where is that?”

“Beyond the city. Into the wilds,” Dagan quieted his voice. “Into that bloody unnatural fog. Most of the wilds are dense jungle, you’d expect some low hanging fog, with being an island and all, but I’ve heard the stories. Comes out of nowhere, so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

“Like you said, for an island, its expected.”

Dagan shook his head. “No, witcher. It’s more than that. Mark my words. Something lives in the fog, and they don’t take kindly to intruders. Those who don’t heed the warnings, never return. Whoever they are, they’ve got the Vints and the Qunari concerned.” Another shipmate called below, taking Dagan’s attention for a moment.

 _Unnatural fog, unknown creatures_ , Cullen thought. _Why do I get the feeling this is going to be far more difficult than a simple errand?_

Cullen didn’t have time to consider more, as Dagan returned. “You’re free to wander, but ready your cloak and belongings.” He handed a rolled parchment to Cullen. “Everything you need to know is on that page. I’ll find you before we dock.”

Cullen sat atop a barrel and read his instructions. He was to disembark and head to the Sea Dragon Tavern and climb to the second floor where he would be met by one of the locals; her name was Mehry. The notes contained no descriptions, nothing to help him identify the contact until he realized why. I doubt there are many witchers on the island. He scooped up the cloak and mask, choosing to wait before donning his weak disguise. As he climbed the ladder to the deck, Cullen was struck by the change in temperature. The air was heavier than he expected, and his armor fit snug to his form did little to help.

Several deck hands stared at him, mouths agape. Unsure how he should react, Cullen raised his hand in greeting. The men returned the gesture, still dumbstruck. From behind him, Cullen heard a woman’s voice hiss a warning and issue orders to return to work. He turned to find a woman with long braided dark hair and warm brown eyes inspecting him. Her skin was more than just touched by the rays of the sun. She was tanned but Cullen guessed she hailed from some place he’d not yet traveled.

She wore layers of cloth in rich tones of red and orange, and the bright red headscarf was more for show than practicality.

“You’re the witcher. Maeveris said you were . . . interesting.” She grinned. “Illeana. But you, dear witcher, may call me Ana.”

“Cullen,” he said, offering his hand.

She peered over a hawk-like nose and winked at Cullen, before taking his hand to shake it. “Next time, I’ll teach you a proper Rivaini greeting. You need to loosen up, my friend.”

A brow rose in question. “I’m not sure I want to know what a _proper Rivaini greeting_ may be.”

Ana threw back her head as she laughed full and loud, before linking her arm through his without asking. “I like you. I can see why Mae chose you.”

Cullen felt like he was missing some part of a joke or conversation. The idea Maeveris had dealings with anyone from Rivain didn’t quite fit what he knew of her. “How do you know Maeveris?”

“Business. I have a few ships and a large family that knows how to keep secrets. Mae pays us well, and we help whenever its needed. Passage, cargo, and the occasional trip like this.” Ana led Cullen toward a door. “Come on, time for a quick lesson. Seheron is rougher than Llomerryn on a bad day, and you need to know a few things before we arrive.”

He couldn’t argue. Cullen hadn’t been told anything other than he was to fetch something for Maeveris and the vague notes on the parchment he’d received, but his curiosity spoke for him. And, he’d heard stories of the pirates and thieves who called Llomerryn home. If Seheron was far more dangerous, he welcomed any information.

“How are you able to travel freely? If it’s true what I was told about spies and difficulties with the Tevinter contingent on the island—not to mention some sort of creatures in fog? Why would anyone accept such a charter?”

Ana opened the door to the captain’s quarters and invited Cullen to sit. “I can pick my charters, and I know how to keep the raiders happy.” She settled into a chair. “It doesn’t hurt to have a reputation for being unpredictable.” She reached for a candle, flicking her fingers toward it. The wick lit with no further effort.

Cullen sat across from her. “So, you’re a mage.”

Scoffing, Ana shook her head but didn’t explain. She gripped a pitcher in one hand and a cup from the table, quickly pouring a drink and sliding the cup toward Cullen. “Try it. Family recipe.”

Keeping his eyes on Ana, he had to trust she wasn’t out to poison or drug him. He waited before drinking. When she poured a cup for herself and drank, he relaxed, sipping the offered beverage. Wine, by the taste of it. Dorian preferred bottles of exorbitant costs, but Cullen cared little for it. This was different. It was spiced, reminiscent of a drink his parents concocted post-harvest. He hummed appreciatively.

“Ah, you have good taste for a witcher stuck in Tevinter. You’ll not find a better brew than my own.”

Cullen finished the drink and thanked Ana. “Then I am already sad, for once I leave, I may never taste such perfection again.” He added a half smile and Ana cackled in response.

She wagged a finger at him. “Mae warned me you were still working on your charm, but I think you’re coming along just fine, friend.” She poured another for them both. “I’ll send along a crate just for you in Mae’s next shipment.”

Cullen raised his cup. “To Mae’s next shipment.”

Ana joined his toast and tossed back the drink, slamming her empty cup on the small table. “Now. Seheron. You can’t take a single step without knowing where you are. Pay attention to everyone. A glance that lingers too long or if someone falls into step alongside. Trust no one. There are slavers on every corner and spies in every shadow.”

“Sounds charming,” Cullen said without inflection.

She reached toward him. “I’m serious. Do no wander. Whatever business you have, finish it quickly. Remember, when you leave the ship, we’ll be back in three days. If you’re not on the docks when we return, we’ll assume you’re dead.”

He rubbed his face. “What about the fog creatures?”

“They aren’t creatures. They are the island’s people. Don’t get involved. There are no winners in the war for control of Seheron, only casualties. Try not to become one of them.”


	13. Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dropped into an entirely new experience on Seheron, Cullen meets a traveling mercenary who points him in the right direction, but not before adding a task of finding and rescuing a runaway elf. On the trek through the jungle, Cullen discovers another search group. Upon reaching their destination, Cullen must convince the elf to leave before the magister finds them all.

Seheron was a marvel to Cullen, a bustling port with new sights and people he’d never encountered. Huge cauldrons steamed the latest catch on one side. Opposite them, fire pits held even bigger iron pots with bubbling liquids; the aroma of cooked vegetables and fish filling the air. The planks of wood beneath his boots creaked and groaned, leaving Cullen to wonder how old the port town may be.

Around him, very few spoke in languages Cullen recognized; his Tevene had improved, but much of what was said fell so rapidly, by the time he translated the words in his head, the discussion had concluded. He knew profanity when he heard it, and he guessed much of what took place around him was less than amicable. When a fight broke out at the far end of the rightmost dock, Cullen knew he could not remain in the open.

 _Find your contact and go._ He carried a pouch filled with coin and a large sack slung across his chest held enough potion ingredients for a small village apothecary. Cullen couldn’t risk losing either and disappointing Maeveris.

His eyes scanned the passersby, curious for a sign which of those gathered might be waiting for him. Fishermen and sailors didn’t even note his presence, merchants carried on loud conversations, shouting at any close enough to their stalls. Cullen caught a glance, but no one reacted with any sign of recognition.

As he ventured further from the water, Cullen saw a denser crowd composed of smaller groups. It was here he noted far more recognition, and none of it good. Steeled glares from onlookers and careful posturing of others issued silent dares and muttered warnings; he was not welcome, and none feared a witcher’s presence.

A large building on the right, shaped like a half barrel, suggested it might be a tavern or a meeting hall. The noise within and large wooden kegs piled high against its side, added to the possibility. Nearby, a group of qunari eyed him as Cullen approached.

Four of them of varied heights all well- muscled followed his steps, two crossed their arms and lifted their heads a little higher as he neared in silent posturing. Cullen didn’t stare, he didn’t need to. Ana had given him enough information to seem aware without drawing unnecessary attention.

 _Each has a different configuration of horns_. He allowed his eyes to dart toward them once more. _The skin is different from humans, too. Almost grey to muted browns._ Two glances were all he could allow. No matter how new, staring would only invite trouble. _Perhaps Dorian has books for further study._

A deep voice carried over to Cullen. “Whatever Vint sent you here, must not like you very much.”

Cullen shrugged, trying to sound unfazed by the warning. “My business is my own.”

The group laughed as one, but another gathered cut into their fun. “The creature can speak? Careful, this one’s trained.”

It wasn’t the first time Cullen had heard such things. Creature. Freak. _Monster_. In most cases, the word was muttered or whispered, but Cullen never missed it. Not once. _They’re not wrong_ , he thought, but there was a difference between Cullen’s self-perceptions and the slurs hurled at him. His fist clenched and yet Cullen knew he had to shake off the insult. _He’s trying to pick a fight_ , Cullen thought. _Better to say nothing._

“You know why they have two swords, don’t ya?” Another said, his mocking tone followed by more gruff laughter.  
Answering the taunt was one option, but he’d already been noticed _. I doubt Maeveris has business with the qunari._ Cullen didn’t have time for brawling. I _could shut him up with a little scare and hope that ends this._

“No,” said the first one, adding more laughter to the conversation. “Why do the freaks have two swords?”

With blinding speed, Cullen drew his silver sword and wheeled around, slashing the space between the two. “One is for men and the other for monsters,” he said, Cullen’s voice as low as he could speak and still be heard. He met the eyes of the two standing rigidly before him. “Care to guess which I hold now?”

Their companions backed away, muttering under their breath. The first shook his head. “Easy there, witcher. It was just a bad joke.”

“Yeah. I’m laughing,” Cullen said without inflection. “Can’t you tell?” He was rude, cold and acting counter to what he knew was proper—just as Maeveris had said he should. And strangely, it felt more right—being soft-spoken and polite would do little good here; diffusing the situation wasn’t an option. _It may not be much of an edge, but at least they’ll be cautious around me._

Cullen’s grip on the sword hilt tightened; he wasn’t sure what would happen next.

The largest of the four qunari grinned. “I like you, witcher. You’ve got balls.” 

Unsure how to reply, Cullen nodded and sheathed his sword on his back.

“At least let us buy you a drink,” the qunari said, “no hard feelings, and all that.”

He felt the lie at the back of his neck. _No hard feelings—right. Probably end up on a ship or tossed overboard in the middle of the sea._ “Some other time. Not today, I’m expected.” Taking several steps back, Cullen refused to give the four his back. _One I could handle, perhaps two, but not all four. Not alone._

When he was far enough away, Cullen turned and allowed his long strides to carry him toward the door.

“Witcher! White one! Hold a moment,” came the call.

Turning, Cullen saw the qunari closing the distance between them. “You’re to meet Azar on the left side path,” he said as he reached Cullen. “She’s waiting ahead.” Cullen raised a single brow, and the qunari continued. “We were hired to keep an eye out. I’m Sogan, and the rest behind me are my crew.”

“And is that supposed to mean something to me?” Cullen replied, finding it easier to continue without caring if he was rude or not.

Sogan crossed his arms and settled on his feet. A stance that could be considered both menacing and matter of fact. “Wasn’t meant to. That ship you came in on has already left. You’re stuck here. That’s where I can help.”

Cullen couldn’t and wouldn’t reveal his plans. It was too easy to talk himself and Ana intro trouble if he wasn’t careful. “And what will your help cost?” _No harm in asking_ , he thought.

Sogan stepped closer. “An elf.” He turned his head and spat on the ground. “Filthy Vint slaver paid us five hundred gold to bring him here and search for his missing slave. The job pays another five when we find him. I need your help.”

Frowning, Cullen shook his head. He was not about to retrieve a slave for coin. “Not interested. Good luck finding your elf.”

“You’re not letting me finish. If you find him, I need you to keep him safe,” Sogan explained. “I think Azar is hiding the elf, and it’s only going to cause her people trouble they don’t need.” 

l-l-l

It didn’t take Cullen long to find Azar, and despite his attempt to be polite, she didn’t seem to like him at all. “Have I offended you?” She wore breeches made from hide, not cloth, and the same coverings protected her arms to the wrist. Her tunic sat snug against her torso. But what caught Cullen’s attention most was a cowl hood in white that she kept pulled up, obscuring her face.

She spoke quietly, but her disdain carried through easily. “I don’t like witchers. Your kind killed many of my kin.”

Cullen shook his head. “I’m not like those others.”

Dark brown eyes met his without fear. A tinge of pink flushed her tawny brown skin. “You’re nothing but dogs meant to serve your masters. You’re here because my brother thinks he can trust yours.”

“I was sent by a friend and am here to do nothing more than deliver what was asked of me.” He slid his arm and head out free of the pouch and put it on the ground. Take it and these coins and you’ll be rid of me.”

She pulled her hood back, and her gaze darted between him and the offered prize. “Just like that? You would leave if I asked?”

Cullen nodded. “Can you give me what was promised?”

“No. I cannot. For that I must take you to my brother.”

He knew only what Maeveris and Acasius had told him. Witchers were slaves of another kind, bought and sold for the use by only the very wealthy in Tevinter. To think they were not used to eliminate enemies would be more than naïve. Cullen had to find a way to reassure Azar, but he couldn’t leave without whatever Maeveris expected in return.

“Then I will remain here, or another location of your choosing with the coins. You may take the pouch. Return with the agreed upon items and the coins are yours.”

She stared at him; her brows knit together, forming a tight knot in the center. Azar glanced over her shoulder once and then scrutinized him once more. “If this is a trick, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

“No tricks, no lies. It’s your choice.”

For a moment, he thought she would turn and leave him there when she picked up the bag and slung it across her torso. Azar lifted the hood, covering her face. “Try to keep up,” she said, turning around and darting into the jungle. 

Cullen wasn’t prepared for a trek through dense foliage and uneven terrain, he’d not brought anything other than his weapons and wearing his armor had seemed the best decision when he’d left the Tevinter coast. He needed free hands to carry the bags he’d been given.

Sweat drenched his skin, leaving an uncomfortable slickness that only grew with continued exertion. He matched Azar’s pace, regardless of his discomfort. Somehow, he guessed she might think less of him if he fell behind.

Azar was quick and agile. She weaved through outgrowths and around obstacles without slowing once. When she suddenly stopped and crouched, Cullen nearly fell over her. It took concentration to roll to his right and stay low.

She pointed to their right. “Whoever they are, they don’t belong here.” She reached out and grabbed Cullen’s arm. “When I move,” she whispered, “you must stay close and be silent.”

He watched as she dug through a small leather bag strapped to her leg, like the vial pouch he carried. She pulled out a bottle and held it out for him to hold. Shaped like a bulb at its base, it held a pile of unidentifiable items within. She rummaged a little more before pulling out a small hide pouch and poured a liquid into the bottle. Almost instantly, a like viscous smoke poured forth. “Throw it and make sure the glass breaks.”

Cullen took aim and smash the bottle against a large tree, dispersing the contents. A thick white fog spread around them.

“We must go. That was my last.”

With a single tug on his arm, Azar pulled him away. So many questions filled his thoughts—his mind a jumble of fascination and curiosity. If that concoction was the makings of the fog Ana’s crew had mentioned, Cullen was certain it was an alchemical formula, but he didn’t know the components.

Azar hissed a warning. “Witcher!”

Cullen had no choice, no matter how intriguing the spectacle. He couldn’t see anything in the thick smoke that covered the immediate area. The bottle held nothing in Cullen’s knowledge to cause such a reaction. He had to follow.

In silence they darted over fallen trees and skirted the area where the noises had originated. Only when Azar slowed her steps, did Cullen speak. “What was in that bottle?” _If I can discern even a few ingredients, maybe I could duplicate it._

“Nahar’s breath.” She said nothing more and gestured to continue. The air cooled, and both had to slow their steps; the ground had begun to slope downward. “We’re almost there,” she said. 

_Almost where? There’s nothing ahead but more of the same._ He’d had enough of green, enough of half fallen trees and rocks that necessitated quick reflexes and constant readjustments to their path. Despite the cooling temperature, he’d had more than enough of the heaviness in the air and the way it clung on him like a wet cloak.

The only way free of this was to complete the task, gather what was promised and leave. Cullen sighed. _The elf_ , he remembered. _It’s easy enough for me to leave, but with another, I’m not so sure._ He’d have to find the missing elf first before planning anything further. Cullen had fallen behind, but he still had sight of Azar up ahead. A familiar odor slowed his steps. Wood burned somewhere nearby; its earthy musk so dilute, Cullen guessed its origination was still a distance away.

 _There must be settlements in this dense foliage,_ he considered, _and that must be where Azar is leading me._ The scent of campfires and cooking food grew stronger as they descended until Cullen saw watchtowers that reached only as high as the canopy of trees. _Just high enough to note movement below._

Azar waited for Cullen at what appeared to be an abandoned ruin; columns and steps half crumbled in a clearing. Just beyond it, Cullen noted the remnants of a large stone building. Once strong walls had fallen, leaving only a suggestion of their once massive size.

“We’re nearly there. Through the temple and then we reach the valley,” Azar said without further explanation.

“This was a temple?” He had to quicken his pace to reach Azar.

She stopped, turned to face him, and frowned. “Was? No, this temple is as active as ever. This is the fog dancer’s domain. My brother. He can explain more if you truly wish to know.”

Cullen remembered what Azar had called the bottled fog. “Is this Nahar’s temple? Is this where you make the fog?”

She laughed without slowing her steps. “I’ve never met a witcher so curious, or so talkative. I thought all your kind did was grunt and swing a blade.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer. On one hand, Cullen hadn’t found any more witchers, except for Acasius, and Azar assessment was fitting for the old witcher. “I’ve not met more than one other,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “But your assessment isn’t wrong.”

“I thought so,” she replied, saying little else.

His ears perked as the sounds of conversation, laughter and children grew louder. When they reached the jungle’s edge, the heavy foliage gave way to a large farm and valley. Azar glanced over her shoulder toward Cullen several times. “It’s known as a _farm_ ; we sustain our families and are able to trade on occasion for things we need.”

It was her tone; a mixture of condescension and the insinuation, all this was new him that laced his answer. “I know what a farm is, thank you,” he said, but then thinking better of angering her, he offered a vague explanation. “I’ve been south of the sea.” He didn’t want to give her any more than that.

What little he offered had pulled her interest. Azar approached him cautiously. “You have? Where? One of the qunari mercs said there is snow—frozen rain. Have you seen it? He tried to describe all manner of large beasts that roam free, more than just wild dogs and serpents.”

Cullen nodded. “Yes, I have seen snow. I know the cold that blankets the fields and drives families inside for months, reliant on their hearth and harvest.”

Azar moved closer. “And the beasts? Tell me what you know.” She motioned for them to keep moving, but her pace was far slower, expecting Cullen to speak as they moved.

He could only guess what she had heard but explained what he knew of the bears that roamed the hinterlands, the druffalo and rams kept as livestock, and the packs of wild dogs and wolves that hunted in the forests. 

When they reached a house, she stopped him. “If there is time, I should like to hear more of the south, but here is where my brother waits.” She knocked on the door and a voice called back to enter. “Go, witcher.”

“Cullen,” he said, tapping his fingers once against his chest.

She nodded once. “Cullen,” she repeated, opening the door inward and waiting for him to enter. She handed Cullen the sack of herbs. Azar closed the door behind him, not following.

Inside the home, candles burned on nearly every surface, but the rooms were still dark. “A moment, white one.” A man’s voice, soft and melodic, carried through the quiet. 

Cullen said nothing and waited in stillness. He could hear two people, the man who spoke, and another. The second person was struggling, their breathing labored and pained. Cullen could hear the strain with each breath. “The rib is broken,” he offered.

“Yes,” came the reply. “I have done what I could. If we had more healing herbs, I could dull the pain even more with a few potions. “Did you bring what I asked?”

Taking a few steps into the entry, Cullen laid the sack of herbs on an empty table. “I have. There is enough to make some for the injured and still have enough. I have the coin as well.”

A struggle caught Cullen’s attention, laced with protests. “No, there is no reason to . . .do not use. . .leave me.”

A man stepped into the candlelight. Despite the dim light, Cullen could see the resemblance to Azar. He shared the same dark brown eyes, the same inquisitive expression. “You’re Azar’s brother.”

“Ashted,” he said quickly, and offered his hand. “The lady sent a witcher. How interesting.”

Before Cullen could respond, objects crashed to the floor behind Ashted, bowls scattered, and chairs fell. “Venhedis!” The injured man hissed his anger through pointed words. “No, I’ll not go. He sent a demon to bring me back. I’ll die first.”

A faint luminescent glow emanated near the elf. As he focused on the far corner, Cullen realized it was the elf’s skin that glowed in intricate patterns. Cullen moved forward, unsure what sort of creature rested before him, but Ashted held up his hands. “Give me a moment to calm him.”

 _An elven slave with some sort of magical markings? Not good._ Cullen shook his head. _The merc was right. And those we heard in the jungle search for him._

“Fenris,” began Ashted. “The witcher is here to deliver coin and herbs. A transaction on behalf of another.”

Adding to Ashted’s assertions, Cullen repeated the same. “Your host speaks the truth. I am not here for you; I came on another errand, but someone asked me to help you leave. I _can_ help.”

“I’ll not help a magister’s dog carry back its prize. No. You’ve lost witcher. Tell your master you failed.” Disgust laced every word, and even carried through in the pained groan that followed, but Cullen had heard the group in the jungle, they could discover the community and harm the innocent.

“You are free to choose to come with me, but you should know there are others searching for you. I heard them when Azar led me here. You would stay and risk the lives of those who tried to help you?” Cullen took a few steps closer but raised his hands. “My swords are sheathed, and I swear I will not harm you.” He neared the rear of the room, his eyes focused on an elf with white hair, a fighter, slender but muscled. A wide bandage encircling his chest and abdomen. “Fenris? Is that your name? Mine is Cullen.”

“It hardly matters what you call yourself,” replied Fenris. “You witchers are nothing more than tools of the magisters.”

“He is not here for you,” Ashted aided Fenris to stand. “And my sister would have killed him on the way if she suspected otherwise.”

“No,” Fenris interrupted. “I have seen the horrors a witcher is capable of and believe me, a witcher is not to be trusted they answer to their masters and coin.”

Cullen’s patience had waned. He inhaled long and deep, thinking on the danger heading toward them, and appealed to Ashted. “I can hunt the hunters for you, but I cannot protect your people and eliminate the problem at the same time.”

Ashted pushed the bag of coins toward Cullen. “Then here. Take this. Azar and a few others will fight with you, and the rest will take the people to safety.” 

Cullen wouldn’t take the money, Maeveris would take issue. This wasn’t a job; his presence may have accelerated the search. “No payment is necessary. Consider it proof I mean no harm. Perhaps then our friend will accept my help.”

“Not likely.” Fenris groaned as he stood. “I’m going with them. I’ll watch Azar’s back and make sure the witcher has not lied.” He turned to address Cullen, his markings beginning to glow once more. “Listen carefully,’ Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “If you have lied, if you dare to injure even a single one of these people—I will rip your mutant heart from your chest.”

The change in Fenris was in complete opposition to the weakened elf Cullen had first seen. This was no broken slave. The stature and carriage of the elf standing before him now was a threat to any who crossed him.

At first, Cullen thought to protest, but he guessed it would do little good against such courage of conviction. “Fine. Do what you wish but stay out of my way.” Cullen hid his frown, pressing his lips together. This little errand had turned into a very large problem. _That’s the last time I agree to anything without more information._ Ashted beckoned to Cullen, suggesting they allow Fenris time to prepare.


	14. Discovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The decision to help Fenris escape the island is made. Before the two can leave Seheron, they will search for Danarius and his party, removing the threat to the rebels and secure Fenris' freedom.

Maeveris had been wrong; this was no small errand. Cullen hadn’t counted on a runaway slave, a hidden village, and rebel fighters. He couldn’t leave these people to face whatever force of strength Fenris’ former master had brought with him.

In the hour that followed the decision to help, Cullen realized he’d been mistaken. These were not helpless villagers; no matter their age, they were fighters. He watched as the youngest children were led into the jungle with a large contingent of armed escorts.

Those of a learning age slipped little jagged rocks and pebbles into leather pouches; some even testing a rock or two with a small sling to gauge the proper size. At first Cullen thought they would follow the group, but he soon realized they, too, were expected to fight.

Cullen didn’t approach. There were still far too many pointed glances among the older villagers. A little girl pointed toward him and waved, but an adult nearby shot a look at Cullen that encompassed both a warning and a threat. _Witchers are hated here_ , he concluded. _Whatever was done in the past will probably shadow my steps for some time, no matter where I go._

He had to consider this whenever travelling. Cullen the Templar had experienced little of the world. Cullen the witcher faced a world of preconceived hatred and revulsion. _If I hope to help the helpless and offer aid in difficult situations, I will need to prove myself._

A young boy of no more than ten years stood nearby, checking the laces on a leather pouch and securing it to his belt. The boy pulled on it roughly. When he nodded, his expression determined, Cullen nearly smiled at the young warrior’s satisfaction. Pouch secure, the boy slid a dagger from a sheathe strapped to his leg, checked over the blade and returned it.

Only then did he see Cullen watching him. The boy grinned and nodded once, before making a fist and clenching it tight, his eyes fixed on Cullen. _He is ready,_ Cullen thought. _Best to agree._ Copying the gesture, Cullen clenched his fist and gave the boy an emphatic nod in return. The widening smile on the young warrior’s face told Cullen he’d given the proper response.

But what drew Cullen’s attention most were the siblings. Azar carried a large, heavy basket. He could see by the strain in her steps and by the occasional shake in her arms, she bore a heavy burden. He knew better than to offer to help, Azar no doubt would scowl at any attempt he might make. Ashted handed out small vials and rounded bottles to all who remained, even the children.

 _Nahar’s breath_ , Cullen remembered, _I wish there was time to learn more about it._ To discover its secrets, he’d have to return with a vial and then find an alchemist able to identify the components. _Maybe Maeveris might_ , Cullen halted his thought. _No. No matter my trust in her and in Dorian, this in the hands of the Imperium could weaken these people. Their secrets are best left here._

Glancing toward Ashted, he noted deep, worried lines on Ashted’s face. It was enough to draw Cullen closer. “You’re concerned.”

The brief silence that followed held until Ashted had scanned the surrounding people. “It was a risk taking Fenris in, but he was injured. I couldn’t leave him and do nothing.” Ashted sighed. “One day, we will take back our home and,” he stopped suddenly and didn’t continue.

Cullen realized Ashted’s dilemma. To fight against the Imperium here and now could invite a larger force, and greater danger. Cullen had no such concerns. He blamed the Imperium for everything that was done to him. “This is not that day, Ashted. I meant what I said. Let _me_ do this.”

Clasping his hands behind his back, Ashted shook his head. “You know nothing of us and our way, and I see your interest in Nahar’s breath. How do I know you will not betray us and the lady?”

He fought back a frown; Cullen had not intended to give the impression he coveted the fog vials. “I want to show you something,” he said, slowly reaching for the potion pack he carried. “I have things that somewhat similar,” he began. “Not in purpose, but they are alchemical in nature.” He slipped a vial filled with a cloudy liquid into his hand and held it up for Ashted to see. “This can clear my body of poison when ingested, but if a human or an elf drank it, it would cause pain and sickness. It is meant for me.”

Ashted met Cullen’s eyes. “I see the truth of it. To share it, no matter how pure intention, would injure another.”

“Exactly,” replied Cullen. “Nahar’s breath is meant for you and your people. Here, on this island, it is their protection. Even if you allowed me to return with a single vial—in another’s hands? It could devastate your people.” Taking a long look around the village, Cullen exhaled. “I won’t be a party to that.”

There was no reply at first, and Cullen couldn’t guess what might happen next. _I should take Fenris and begin the search for the magister’s party._ “I’ll be on my way.”

It took another moment for Ashted to break free of his silence. “A moment. Wait, please.” He turned and left. It didn’t take long for Fenris to confront Cullen.

“What have you said?” Despite the quiet in his voice, the challenge within wasn’t lost on Cullen.

“Nothing. We were talking about responsibility.” The broadsword on Fenris’ back was far too large for his frame, and Cullen wondered if Fenris could wield it with any effectiveness. It was Tevene in origin by the visible markings. _I could ask where he acquired the sword, but something tells me I should simply move on. The sooner we complete the task, the better._ “Are we ready to depart?”

Fenris didn’t budge. “I feel I must question you further. What can a witcher know of responsibility? Kill the target, collect your coin. Isn’t that how it works? Your kind never remain to see the consequences of their actions. The perfect citizen of the Imperium.” Spite and disgust coated Fenris’ words. His glare at Cullen strengthened.

Cullen had grown tired of Fenris’ complaints, but the job he’d entangled himself in necessitated dealing with Fenris until they were off the island. “I am not an Imperial citizen. I was born in Ferelden. My situation and existence was not by choice. Now, while I am helping you and finishing why I came to Seheron in the first place, keep your opinions to yourself.”

Ashted returned with a hide pack. His eyes shifted from Cullen to Fenris and back. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Cullen said curtly, accepting the pack. “This is what Maeveris is expecting?”

“Yes,” replied Ashted. “There are several parchments in there as well, those are for you.” He moved closer. “It is not exact, and will not produce the same result, but with your curiosity and fascination as company, I think you’ll find a result that suits you.”

 _Nahar’s breath? Why part with the formula now_? Cullen’s brows knit together. “I didn’t ask—”

“And it is for that reason,” explained Ashted, “I have given you a head start.” He shifted his attention to Fenris. “Trust in Cullen, my friend. He will see you safely from Seheron.”

l-l-l

The climb out of the valley had tired them both, but Fenris assured Cullen he didn’t want to rest.

“We keep going, Danarius will stay near civilization. He will not camp in the open.” Fenris led the way, despite Cullen’s initial protests.

“Danarius is the magister searching for you?”

Stopping to face Cullen, Fenris raised a single brow. “I suppose I should thank you. Few would aid one in my. . .situation. I am unsure why you would care for a magister’s property.”

Cullen shrugged. “You left. You are no longer his slave and he is not your master. A bit simplistic, but it matters little,” he said, taking the lead. 

The answer seemed to satisfy Fenris. “Hmm, yes.”

“Each new area looks the same, I have no way of knowing if we are walking in circles or in the right direction.” Cullen had suggested the division of the party, but he had overestimated his ability to navigate the jungle on his own. Whenever he thought they had made progress, the trees grew familiar, as if they had passed the same one just minutes before. He’d sliced a large leaf now and then as a marker, but found he’d forgotten the location of his marks. _This is maddening,_ he thought. _How am I to find our way?_

An arrow flew over them, slicing through leaves far to their right side, but neither reacted. Azar’s party showing them the way, without words “Apparently you’re heading in the wrong direction, witcher,” said Fenris. “We should veer right.”

“I’m aware, thank you.” Cullen could have challenged him but refrained. _How convenient Fenris remembers the way now._

“Really? Because if you were aware, we wouldn’t have needed the course correction.”

It was the kind of jab Dorian often used to get under Cullen’s skin and prompt a response. It worked far too well, but Cullen had learned some restraint while working with Maeveris. Taking three more steps, Cullen’s ears picked up a Tevene curse, followed by the sound of someone falling to the ground. They weren’t close, but if the two of them made too much noise, they’d lose the advantage. He turned around and held his index finger to his lips.

Quieting to a whisper, Cullen explained what he’d heard. “The question is, do we approach by stealth and take them out one at a time or rush them?”

The two discussed the merits of each tactic but could not agree on the best course of action. The lack of progress brought Azar to their position. “Why are we stopping?”

Cullen pointed ahead of them. “I believe we have found the magister; they are still a fair distance ahead.”

She nodded. “Fine. Stay here and talk. I’ll take my bow and a few others above.” Azar turned and left, disappearing into the thick leaves behind them. Within moments, Cullen heard multiple footfalls at varying distances around them.

“She’s sent her people in,” Cullen said. _Exactly what I didn’t want._ The move set them with only one option to keep Azar and the party safe. “We need to draw the search party’s attention and keep them unaware of the others.”

Fenris hummed in reply. “Very well. Lead on.”

By the amount of noise the search party made, Cullen’s confidence grew. The complaints were many and despite the distance he picked up on a few words. “They’re lost.”

Fenris tapped Cullen’s shoulder. “You are Ferelden born and you understand Tevene? How?”

“You could be wrong in your assumption. Maybe they aren’t speaking in their native language.” Cullen knew the truth but wanted to see where the questions would lead.

“If the tales are only half true, then you know full well what language they spoke,” Fenris said in a tone that carried an unmistakable challenge. “We’ve little time for games and taunts, witcher.”

The hint of annoyance he heard urged Cullen to play on. “I wasn’t aware we were on such terms.”

“A valid response.” Fenris aggravation carried on clipped words. “I can see you have no intention of answering my previous question, I’ll withdraw it. How much further?”

Cullen could have ignored the entire exchange. _If I want to earn his trust, there’s no harm in an honest reply._ “I have a tutor—a friend, actually. He has tried to teach me, so I might understand conversation without giving the impression I can translate.”

“A wise decision,” Fenris answered. “Knowing one’s enemy is a necessity.”

 _Knowing one’s enemy_ , thought Cullen. _Probably best not to reveal Dorian’s origins. I’m still not convinced my companion here trusts me._ Cullen shifted the conversation.

“What can you tell me about Danarius? Those markings, did he give them to you? For what reason?”

“I cannot guess the reasons. While they have served me well enough, I had no choice.” Fenris muttered a curse. “We’ve no time for this now. How close are we?”

Cullen didn’t need his senses to read the aggravation and anxiety taking hold of Fenris, calling into question his effectiveness in battle.

Cullen turned his head and listened. Raised voices and exasperated replies confirmed his earlier assessment. The group was lost and arguing. He focused; what he needed was a bearing on their position. A sudden commotion and cry of alarm from the magister’s party changed their plans.

He heard the cries clearly. Fog encircled the group. “Azar. She went on ahead,” he said to Fenris. “We have to hurry,” he said.

The dense trees and massive leaves hindered their speed, and Cullen gave Fenris the lead. The shouts grew louder, and Cullen’s medallion vibrated against him. The magister fought back.

“Through here!” Shouted Fenris, giving Cullen a focus to follow. The fog thickened, obstructing the view all around him.

Ahead of them, a voice demanded attention. “Give me the elf!”

The reply came quieted, menacing and unafraid. “ _Never_.”

Fenris sped his steps, forcing Cullen to run faster; his normal vision impaired by the thick cover. _I’ve got to get higher and move through the trees,_ he thought. His senses couldn’t map every branch, root and stone.

Cullen climbed, hoping to get a better vantage. He didn’t know the terrain well enough to stumble blindly through the heavy curtain of fog. From his perch, he found the group. There were six standing together, and perhaps ten more spaced around the smaller group. _Those are Azar’s people, encircling the magister’s party. I can’t stay here._

He hopped from his perch and continued toward the voices.

“Ah, Fenris. Predictable, as always. I knew you’d come. Those fool mercenaries thought to deceive me, but the witcher’s arrival was most fortuitous.”

Cullen reached the group and stood with Fenris. He counted three men with swords, two with staves and the magister. “The witcher’s arrival had nothing to do with you, but this time, I’ll make an exception. Leave.”

Danarius laughed; it was a haughty, forced laugh, but Cullen noted the hint of fear in the man’s eyes. “Not without my _pet_.” The connotation in that single word set Cullen’s resolve.

“I don’t think so.” The discordant scrape of the sword’s edge against the guide ring seemed to unsettle the magister’s men. Several whispered about Cullen’s appearance. “Final warning, leave.”

Several of the men backed away, but Danarius stood firm. “My Fenris,” he said with a sigh. “Kill them for me.”

“No,” Cullen said, answering for him. “You don’t have to do this. You’re not his to command.” Cullen couldn’t be sure if Fenris could be forced to carry out Danarius’ order. _If he can swing that sword and connect, I’m going to need help to take out the magister and hold Fenris off as well._

Fenris didn’t reply; he stood transfixed on Danarius. “You see, witcher, he must obey. I have given him everything. Don’t you see?”

Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. “The only thing I see is a magister trying to rule over someone who is free.”

Danarius ignored Cullen, addressing Fenris again. “Kill them. Kill them all.”

The strength Cullen had seen in Fenris’ eyes disappeared, they widened, and his shoulders slumped.

“Fenris, don’t listen. You belong to no one.” Azar echoed the same, moving to stand on Cullen’s right.

“The witcher speaks truth, my friend. You are one of us now. No one owns you,” she said with a touch of softness to her words. “Fen, remember who you are. You owe this man nothing.”

Danarius slid his staff to his hand. “How little you both understand. I’ll be sure to alert the Archon to the weakness of _your_ loyalties, witcher. We can’t have an Imperial witcher going against its citizens, can we?”

As if in a daze, Fenris drew his broadsword and advanced “I. . .but. . .”

“Do it. Do it now,” commanded Danarius.

Cullen could easily strike the magister down, but he needed to incapacitate Fenris. He’d not tried the axii sign except in minor tests. Properly executed, it could calm and even induce a hypnotic state. _I don’t know if this will work and it doesn’t exactly foster trust. Especially after I tried to convince Fenris he could decide for himself. I have to protect them all, and I can’t see another way._ Cullen turned to face Fenris and drew the inverted triangle.

The mild daze deepened, and Fenris swayed on his feet, but said nothing. Cullen stared in his eyes. “Drop your sword.” Fenris’ grip loosened, and the broadsword clunked as it dropped to the dirt.

“What are you doing witcher?” Azar asked, keeping her eyes squarely on the party.

Without replying, he continued to issue instructions. “Turn around and wait for us at the temple.”

As he complied, Danarius shouted his orders to kill the others, but Fenris gave no sign he could hear them.

“Go,” he said to Azar, “keep him in view, but do not talk to him or touch him until I return.”

She nodded. “The others will aid you; I will do as you ask.” Azar whistled sharply and then followed the path Fenris had taken.

He turned to face Danarius again, hearing the advance of the warriors around him.


	15. Unburdened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danarius defeated, Cullen realizes he missed the agreed upon departure. Finding the band of qunari mercenaries waiting for him, they offer passage, but only if the witcher will accompany them on a mission. Despite Cullen's reluctance to join the mercs, Fenris convinces Cullen that the plight of elves captured on a slavers ship cannot go unanswered.

Fenris deserved to live free of the Imperium. Cullen couldn’t promise him anything beyond what he could control. If Fenris killed Danarius, he might be free until another sought him as a prize or a target for revenge.

 _But what if I killed the magister?_ Cullen considered the repercussions for a moment. If pressed, he could lie. _Could I, though?_ It wasn’t how he was raised. _Wrong_ , his inner voice said. _Cullen couldn’t lie. You aren’t he. You’re a witcher now. Not the second child of the Rutherford family from Honnleath. You’re nothing more than a monster made to kill other monsters. Danarius is a monster. So, do what you were made to do._

 _Right._ Cullen would listen to the witcher within him. Rolling his shoulders first, he twisted his neck until the familiar snap of the tendons told Cullen he was ready. “No more talk. You die here.” A quick gesture activated his shield, the quen sign drawn without hesitation.

The surrounding fog thickened even more. Cullen facing Danarius while his companions encircled their master. The small group, clearly unbalanced by the rising fog, turned their heads in confusion. Cullen advanced and waited until a whispered voice spoke a single word.

“ _Now_.”

Cullen’s first slice was wild and larger than normal, Danarius didn’t have time to counter and stumbled back two steps. From the left, Cullen heard a dagger slice through cloth and flesh, as one Imperial soldier cried out in pain and fell, clutching his leg. His swearing in Tevene cut short by the squelch of his neck flesh sliced cleanly open.

The medallion against his armor hummed in warning. Danarius and another primed to strike with magic. The first hit glanced off Cullen’s shield, the caster’s frustration evident from a strangled growl, but the sound quickly changed to a gurgle.

 _Another blade of the fog warriors found its mark_ , Cullen thought, and the witcher’s voice within issued a new direction. _Good. Get Danarius._ And with that, Cullen stepped closer to his foe, knowing the warriors would dispense with the magister’s entourage.

Cullen pointed his sword at his opponent’s chest. “How many have you stolen and tortured? How many have you tormented?”

Danarius wore a loose expression of haughtiness, but Cullen heard the hammering heartbeat, saw the unsure footsteps, and the trembling hands of the magister. _He knows_ , the voice in Cullen’s head said. _He knows today he dies._

“The Archon would not approve,” Danarius said, the tremor in his voice clear. The magister primed another blast of magic, but Cullen drew the quen sign even faster this time, and the shield barely glittered from the impact.

“The Archon,” Cullen said, raising his sword, “will never know.” The first slice slit the magister’s robes, cutting easily through the hide torso to the skin beneath. The second, a slash from the left, carved even deeper into flesh, catching on bone as it moved. Rather than tear his way through, Cullen pulled his sword free and pierced the magister’s chest. The body folded from the effort, leaving Cullen to pull his weapon forcefully, blood and sinew falling free of his blade as it left his foe. A wave of satisfaction filled Cullen’s head.

The instant the magister’s body fell to the ground, Cullen’s eyes widened; his sword arm dropped to his side. _What have I done?_ The carnage in front of him repulsed him. He stood rigid, staring at the vacant eyes of the man he’d killed. He could hear his name called repeatedly, but Cullen couldn’t move.

 _Maker take me_ , he thought. _Is this what I have become?_

There were justifications for his actions, certainly. But Cullen had never imagined the remorse that followed such an act. _Demons and creatures are one thing, but this_? It was only then he realized his face, hands and armor were covered in blood and gore, its coppery scent stronger than he remembered.

“Cullen! Answer me!” He was turned and faced Azar, with Fenris a few steps behind. She shook his arm. “Are you injured?”

He shook his head, and it took a moment more to find his voice. “No. I am well.”

Fenris stood behind Azar. “I. . .as much as it pains me to say—I owe you a debt, witcher. I would have,” Fenris paused, and dropped his voice to a near whisper. “I would have killed them, killed those who saved me just because Danarius asked.”

“It didn’t happen. No one will know what happened here. You have my word.” Cullen wiped his sword clean and returned it to his sheath. His eyes shifted to his hands. “I should get cleaned up.”

Azar agreed. “You’re a fine warrior, Cullen. I would be proud to count you among my clan. You’re welcome to stay.”

“Thank you,” he said, knowing full well he needed to get as far away from others as he could. “I am expected.” To Fenris, he apologized. “I had no choice; I can see the effects have ended. Forgive me, I couldn’t let you—”

Fenris raised his hand, cutting off Cullen’s apology. “Azar told me. As I said, I owe you a debt. Is there something I can do? Lend my sword? Name it.”

Inside, Cullen’s heart clenched in his chest, still reeling from his actions, and he struggled to maintain the same attitude Maeveris had instructed him was expected from a witcher. He tried to smile, and every word he spoke sat heavy with lies. “It was nothing. You owe me nothing.”

The return to the village took longer than Cullen expected. Covered in drying filth, Cullen refused to wait for water to be prepared, choosing instead to bathe in a nearby river. _I’ve got to get Mae’s things and meet Ana. I need distance from this place if I’m to clear my head._

Despite the constant offers of hospitality and a lengthy stay, Cullen moved to near rudeness as he insisted he’d remained too long. Only Fenris seemed to understand. They shared a private meal, away from prying eyes and ears.

“Where will you go?” Fenris asked. “None survived, I doubt any will learn of what took place here.”

 _Except for those qunari mercenaries_ , he thought. _I’ll need to avoid them._ Cullen couldn’t be certain they’d take the loss of promised coin too well and guessed they might see him as another opportunity to make money, but there was little need to share that with Fenris. “I was to return to Minrathous, but I believe it may be time for a minor change in destination for a brief period.”

“Yes, a wise decision,” Fenris said. “A little distance from the Imperium is advisable. Will your magister understand, I wonder?”

 _As long as Maeveris gets her package._ Cullen nodded absently, not dwelling on the collection of neromenian seals in his possession. He didn’t want to know what she had planned and felt it better to stay out of it. “I’ll relay what I can through my contact and hope it will be enough.”

They continued the meal in near silence until Fenris picked up the conversation. “I really do not like having this unresolved between us. The debt must be repaid. I will travel with you.”

Holding back a sigh, Cullen refused. “There is no debt, and you are under no obligation to me. Stay with these people if you wish or find a new path, but I travel alone.” Cullen pushed around the food on his plate with a wooden spoon, unwilling to meet Fenris’ conviction.

Fenris hummed in response. “As you wish, witcher. There will come a time when you look to others for aid. When that time comes, I’ll be there."

l-l-l

Leaving the settlement proved far more difficult than Cullen had hoped. Too many offered hands and well wishers impeded his progress. It took hours to depart and traverse the thick foliage to the agreed upon location, but Ana’s ship was no where in sight. _Probably because I’m a day late_ , he guessed. Around him, signs of a storm added urgency to his search.

Wide leaves on the trees shook with each gust of wind. Dark clouds overtook the serene sky and shrouded the sunlight. Cullen could see without worry, his eyes could adjust to any level of light, but Ana’s ship wouldn’t risk sitting idle if a storm intensified. By the look of the white-capped waves, if he didn’t locate the ship soon, Cullen would be forced to remain on the island until the sea quieted.

“Wonderful,” Cullen muttered. “Now what?” Ana knew Maeveris waited on Cullen’s return. She wouldn’t leave him without the means to return to Tevinter.

 _The mercs_ , he thought. _Risky, but their leader, Sogan, knew of my arrival; he may know where Ana waits._ He could skirt along the coast, avoid drawing too much attention, but one simple fact remained. He’d missed the connection and would have to return to Minrathous.

Taking in his options, Cullen decided to stick as close to the coast as the terrain would allow. With the sloping hills and wide view it provided, he’d see any approaching parties on land or sea. Descending a rocky incline, Cullen saw an inlet a short distance ahead of him. A wooden rowboat rested half perched on the rocky shore, with four men sitting around a small fire. One stood and stretched his arms. In that action Cullen saw the spiraling horns.

“They could be the same mercs from the docks, but then again, why do I get the feeling I just found trouble?”

Cullen’s habit of talking aloud to himself annoyed him. _If you want conversation, stop pushing others away._ Cullen knew Fenris would have traveled with him, expecting nothing. _It’s better alone, but in this case, maybe not._

“I should stay out of sight for now.” Before Cullen could take action, the qunari stretched again, turning in Cullen’s direction. He raised a hand and called out.

“Witcher! White one! Over here!”

With a deep exhale, Cullen shook his head. “Damn. So much for staying out of sight.” It wouldn’t do to check his swords. Surely any such show would concern the small group, and escalate the situation—if there was one at all.

As Cullen neared the makeshift camp site, he noted Sogan sat on a crate, fiddling with a small throwing dagger in his hands. He didn’t look up when Cullen joined them. “You took your time, witcher. Ana couldn’t wait, so you’re coming with us.” The ominous tone to Sogan’s statement should have concerned Cullen, but a hearty laugh and heavy slap on Cullen’s back suggested something far less sinister.

“Uncle, don’t. Never piss on a witcher’s good mood,” said one of the others.

Cullen raised a brow. The one who spoke was shorter than the others, his horns far smaller and build thin. His voice didn’t carry the rich timbre he’d heard from the mercs since arriving. _Still just a boy_ , Cullen thought. _Almost as tall as me, however._ The young qunari seemed more jovial and eager, unafraid to meet Cullen’s eyes. “Who says I’m in a good mood?”

The qunari grinned. “We’re still standing and aren’t full of holes. Name’s Kaaras.” He held out his hand. “Kaaras Adaar.” He pointed at Sogan. “That’s my uncle, or so my mother says.”

Sogan tossed the knife to the ground. “Sit down and shut your yap, pup.” A round of laughter took over the group, but Sogan didn’t join in. “Need a favor, witcher. Once we’re done, I’ll take you to Rivain as Ana wanted.”

Cullen shook his head. “I need to get back to Minrathous.”

“No, you don’t,” Sogan replied. “Ana will get a message to your friend. You’re needed elsewhere.” Sogan untied a pouch from his belt and tossed it at Cullen’s feet. Gold coins tumbled onto the rocks. “That should cover it.”

“Cover what, exactly?”

Sogan stood up but kept his distance. “We know you helped the elf. Was it a onetime thing for you, or will you help us stop more from being taken against their will?” 

A rustling nearby forced all to stand and ready weapons. From the right, heavy footfalls stopped at the periphery of the camp site. “The _elf_ has a name,” a familiar voice said, stepping closer into view. “And if you are hunting more Imperial slavers, I am coming with you.” Fenris jumped down from the rise and crossed his arms.

Cullen wasn’t sure what to make of Fenris’ appearance. “Following me?”

“I hadn’t intended, but Ashted sent me. Seems his instincts were right again. I am needed.”

Stepping between Fenris and the others, Cullen kept his voice low. “These mercs were paid to find you for—”

“Not _entirely_ true, witcher,” Sogan interrupted. “We don’t like Vints. We hate Vint slavers even more. Even if we had found your friend there, he’d be the only one left standing when we finished the job.”

The others nodded. Kaaras joined Cullen. “We learned that there’s a ship, left someplace south. Ferelden, we think. Loaded with elves. We don’t know how many guards. We’re fifteen strong onboard, but with a witcher, this will be easy.”

Cullen disagreed. “Nothing is ever easy.”

“What is your plan?” asked Fenris.

“You’re coming too?” There was a hint of surprise in Cullen’s question. Fenris had been freed, he had a chance for a new life on Seheron. “I thought you wanted to stay.”

“No. This is more important. We can prevent others from hardship and slavery.” Fenris nodded toward the money pouch on the ground. “If money is your obstacle, I will add to that purse.”

“Keep your coin,” Cullen said, all but certain he would help for less than offered. The Imperium had taken him from Ferelden, the Order and his family. He couldn’t sit idly by and do nothing. “Where is the ship and what is the plan?”

Sogan clapped his hands together. “The money is yours and I’ll hear no argument.” He gave the order to pack and make ready for their ship. To Cullen he said, “you’ll need coin when we get to Rivain. Consider it a retainer of sorts.”

“A retainer?” Cullen wasn’t sure he liked the connotation.

“Yes. Ana thinks you might be useful to us, to her, and to a great many others.” He hoisted a bag over his shoulder, taking a moment to bark a few more orders to get the boat in the water. “There aren’t many heroes left in Thedas.”

Cullen frowned. “I’m no hero.”

The group climbed into the rowboat, and they moved onto the water; the two qunari at the oars straining against the waves. “That may be,” Sogan said, “but you’re all we’ve got.” 

l-l-l

Once on board, Cullen and Fenris were situated away from the crew. They’d have their hands full with navigating the storm; it was better for the two of them to give the crew room to work. Fenris sat across from Cullen, tapping his fingers on the round table inside the captain’s quarters.

“I’ve seen witchers; heard tales of their exploits. You’re nothing those mindless butchers.”

Cullen didn’t reply, silently wondering what Fenris hoped to gain from the interaction. _Perhaps he’s trying to make conversation, but I doubt it is without motive._

“You’re different. Why? Most were taken from lesser houses or nomadic tribes of the west. Where is your family?”

At first, Cullen wasn’t sure he wanted to share anything of his former life _. If I say nothing, he’ll persist. Give him something, at least._ “I was taken from the Order in Ferelden. Kinloch Hold, nearest to Redcliffe. Do you know it?”

“No. I am unfamiliar with the south. So, the Templars abandoned their own? How long has it been?”

Cullen started to reply and then realized the truth. “I don’t know. What is the year?”

“The year? What do you remember?” Fenris shifted in his chair, the reply a cross between a scoff and a laugh. “Yes, I should have guessed. The Imperium has a way of masking the where and when. Disorientation is key to their methods.”

Leaning back against the wood slats of the chair, Cullen crossed his arms. “I remember it all. The training exercise in the woods across the lake, the ruse, and my capture. I remember the ship and the cage I slept in.” He shifted, eyes locked on a nonexistent enemy. His voice hardened. “And I shall never forget the monster who sought to make me like him. Acacius. I will find him and give him his due.”

“You hunt the Archon’s demon? You’re mad,” Fenris said. “You cannot return. Danarius had powerful allies. His demise will reach the ears of the Archon and his witcher. You can be certain your presence on Seheron was noted and will be relayed. To return would be your end.”

Cullen tightened his fingers into a fist. “Not mine. His.” 

“You are either a great fool or this so-called hero, as your merc friend named you.” Fenris stared at the tabletop. “To best him, you would need to get close. That, in itself, is dangerous.” He shook his head. “You’d need help, someone of influence on the inside to keep you away from Acasius until the perfect moment arrives.”

“I have the means and the aid.” Cullen explained the visits from Acasius under the guise of lessons and training, the Archon’s witcher tested Cullen every so often. He spoke of Dorian and Maeveris, without naming either.

“I take it back. You are an even greater fool,” he stood and pointed his finger for emphasis. “You cannot trust these people. They are not your friends. There is no such thing as loyalty in the Imperium. It is a lie.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is a reimagining of a story I wrote years ago. It will follow Cullen from his abduction through the events of Origins, Kirkwall, and the events of Dragon Age" Inquisition. This is an alternate universe fic that assumes the witchers originated in Tevinter, some liberties will be taken.


End file.
